THE GREAT DOMINIONS

This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs2.5 License.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Copyright Mark Taylor, 2011.

All illustrations copyright the respective artists, 2011.

All rights reserved.

For book information visit: www.thegreatdominions.com

For author information visit www.monoman.com

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

SABIQ by Benjamin Vierling

KABIKAJ by Arik Roper

MELCHISEDEK TOB by David V D’Andrea

AZAZEL by Joshua Belanger

PROLOGUE

A perfect unshod foot trod gently through dew-drenched grass; one perfect foot placed carefully before the other. Ahead, a figure sat on a rocky outcrop, surveying the valley beyond. The figure turned and stood, smoothing his long robes and black cascading hair. His eyes glinted. There were seven immaculate pupils in each of those eyes: one at the centre and six others that rotated around it; they turned in either direction, slow or fast, seemingly with a life of their own. His demeanour would have made the coldest heart ache; murderers would have wept involuntary tears of joy at the sound of his voice.

‘Michael.’ The word escaped his lips, brightening the world like sun after rain.

‘Hail Raphael’ replied the other, nodding. The two figures stood facing one another: tall, slim, exquisitely winged.

‘What is His bidding?’

‘To descend to the Earthly realm and capture our former brother, the one called Azazel or Ashaklun; he is foremost amongst those rebels. The Most Exhalted has decreed that they all be slain, save for him.’

‘And what is to be his fate?’

‘The Lord of Retribution has commanded that you shall inter him in the darkness of the Earth, in furnaced perdition; pile rocks upon him and seal him there until the Time of Ending.’

The one called Michael sighed quietly and sat down again. A frown flickered across his immaculate features, but he said nothing.

‘What ails thee?’ asked the one called Raphael.

The other did not reply for some time. He looked out across the valley, where no tilled soil could be seen, nor cattle of any kind; instead there was only forest and grassland, moor and mountain; birds soared in the blue sky and dipped towards glistening rivers.

Finally the one called Michael spoke. ‘Although He decrees it and I will obey, I am loath to descend to that mortal realm. I fear it. Since it was sullied by the Great Deceiver it has become a place of corruption, riddled with decay and ruin.’

‘But you have travelled to Earth before. And He has sent you there in the knowledge that you are the strongest of His entire Host; your will is unbreakable.’

‘I gain no comfort from your words Raphael, for I alone know of the temptations that stir within me when I am cloaked in mortal aspect. We are creatures of spirit, unsuited to the worldly lures of that domain.’

‘He will deliver you from its evil.’

‘Perhaps, but in that realm the clouds of depravity block out His radiance, so that fewer and fewer rays reach the creatures that abide there.’

‘You are wrong Michael. His influence is unbounded.’

‘If that were true, then why has Azazel succumbed to temptation? Why have his cohorts committed their great sins?’

‘Because they are weak. They have always been weak. And they must be punished.’ Raphael turned and beckoned to his attendants, who stood at a distance amongst rippling grass.

‘The Creator of All Power knows your fears. And so I have a gift from Him which will aid you in your mission.’

Raphael’s attendants came forth, bearing an object bound in unadorned cotton. Raphael took it from them and folded back the cloth. Within lay a scabbarded sword that shone with a gentle white radiance.

Raphael smiled and looked to his companion, his eyes glittering with reflected light. ‘Yes. A third sword of power, untainted by forge or flame, crafted instead by His own hand from the very stuff of creation; a holy weapon to aid you in your task. Its purpose is to slaughter those who have rebelled and to vanquish their leader. To Azazel the weapon is a bane; whoever wields it will hold sway over him. And when he kneels before your blade and begs for mercy, you shall offer it: Azazel’s life will be spared, though he shall see out all of his days buried in the deepest of pits, interred beneath a holy seal that will only be broken come the Final Day.’

Michael inhaled a deep breath and gingerly lifted the sword, feeling its weight. Then he whipped the blade from its scabbard and held it aloft. The weapon keened as though alive, its wail reaching high into the cloudless sky.

Michael also smiled; the sword seemed to fill him with a holy exuberance. He examined the blade that, although plain, was perfectly wrought; curiously, it tapered not to one point but two, like a serpent’s forked tongue. At the pommel end was a carved sigil: a cross, intersected with a pair of ‘s’ shapes.

Michael nodded his approval. ‘This is indeed a generous gift. I am humbled.’

‘The Satisfier of All Needs favours you above many others. Besides, Azazel is an affront to His authority, and He would see those rebels dispatched in a manner most grievous.’

Michael returned the sword to its scabbard and secured it about his waist. ‘When my task is complete, what then?’

‘Return to this realm, and bring the weapon with you.’

‘What will become of it?’

‘You may not possess it, Michael. It was created for one purpose. Once fulfilled, the sword will be removed to a place of safekeeping. Although…’ Rapahel suddenly looked puzzled. ‘Although the Most High mentioned that it would be used once more. By a man.’

‘A man? How could a man ever wield a sword of power?’

‘I know not. But The All-Comprehending decreed that, many ages from now when the Earth is old and tired, a man would bear it a while; a man of blood, riddled with vice and violence; a man steeped in sin and mired in hate; the worst of His children.’

‘Why? Why would He bequeath this gift to a man such as that?’

‘It is not for us to know Michael. Be satisfied that He has decreed it thus. It is enough simply to know that God wills it.’

CHAPTER 1

1291AD, the Crusader City of Acre on the Eastern Mediterranean, Syria.

God wills it. By Mary’s dugs, I had heard those words a thousand times – often springing from the lips of some hypocrite or other – outwardly pious but their hearts as black and rotten as my own. God wills it – words used to justify a hundred years of carnage by Christian and infidel alike. I had heard it all before and now here I was listening to it again, this time from a pasty-faced boy just off the ships. I had remonstrated with the Sergeant that I was too busy to play nursemaid to yet another whelp but to no avail. All novices were to be partnered with older Templars, and that was the rule. Besides, what could I ever teach them? God forbid they should use me as a paragon of Templar virtue. This Kaspar Pelac was lecturing me on the Rule of St Bernard and I tried to ignore him but, in truth, he reminded me of my younger self. We first met at meame. I cast a cursory eye over him while noisily slurping my cup of thin pottage. Before he had even opened his mouth I knew what to expect: he was eager and devout, and could probably think of no more noble sacrifice than to die for Christ on the battlefield, fighting to protect the Holy Lands from the heathen insurgence. I watched him as he listened, rapt, to the readings from the scriptures during our dawn break of fast. He didn’t eat. The readings and recitations appeared to offer him all the sustenance he needed. Whilst his eyes flickered shut in prayer I grabbed his soup and bread.

Moments later his eyes opened again, gazing at where his food should have been; they rested on my double-helpings.

‘You’ve stolen my meal, Brother’ he exclaimed.

I shrugged. ‘You didn’t seem to want it.’

He appeared distraught. I sighed and slid the food back. ‘Take it. But by our Lady, eat it this time.’

His habit hung from him like a sack on a pole. He was probably just out of boyhood – only a few years younger than me. Yet my body had been moulded by years of butchery, scarred and gnarled like an old tree stump. No doubt, compared to him, I looked at least ten years older. Any youthful exuberance I had once possessed had been transformed in the crucible of war into weary bones and long scars.

‘Where were you born?’ I muttered, mouth full of bread.

‘Bohemia. The town of Karlstein, near Prague. I’ve been in the order close to a year.’

‘Welcome then. I guarantee in a week you will pray you could return.’

I got up from the trestle table, drained my wine cup and made to leave. ‘Only one rule here. Look out for yourself. No-one else will. Certainly not me.’

‘Why do you hate me?’ he whined. ‘I thought you would want to talk. The other brethren do.’

‘Most of them do not. Besides, it is forbidden whilst a reading is in progress.’ He pulled me towards him and reluctantly I sat down again. ‘Shouldn’t you be telling me how Templar knights are chaste and obedient? How they must take a vow of poverty and deliver all worldly goods into the hands of the order? How in the cloister they must be silent and wear the habit of a monk, but on the battlefield be fearless warriors killing for Christ? For as St Bernard the Cistercian originally preached, malecide is not sinful; rather it glorifies God, for in His eyes, a dead pagan is preferable to a living pagan. Evil should be exterminated at all costs. God wills it. And in return for these good deeds, the martyred brethren will inherit the kingdom of Heaven.’

I expelled a loud guffaw, which turned a few heads. I could not tell whether this milksop was speaking the truth as he saw it, or merely playing the fool. I turned to him, no doubt a flicker of annoyance in my eyes.

‘Listen to me. I’m not going to repeat myself. All of this’ – I gestured around the refectory and towards the brother reciting from the Scriptures – ‘is horseshit. Forget about the liturgy – you will draw no succour from it. And you want to know why I will not talk with you?t’s because you’re not worth it. One of us will die soon, and then what? Why put one of us through the misery of mourning a lost comrade? Trust me, do not form close bonds with your brethren, as I have done. You may just live to regret it.’

He protested. ‘But… surely companionship between brothers forges a strong and loyal bond. Do the Gospels not say that “greater love has no man than this, that a man should lay down his life for a friend?”’

‘The Gospels were written before Templar slaughtered infidel on the plains of Syria. They don’t consider this bloodbath. Ignore my advice if you choose. You will discover its truth soon enough.’

The reading had finished and the knights began to make way for the second sitting, when the sergeants would partake of their meal. A Templar brother approached, nodded and said: ‘the Marshal wants you. At the stables – now.’

I acknowledged him with a throaty cough and a gobbet of phlegm. ‘The bastard. More toil.’ I grinned wryly at Kaspar. ‘Raynaud the Marshal hates me. Get your kit. You’re about to have your first taste of life in the Holy Lands.’

CHAPTER 2

Raynaud had attached Kaspar and me to a small contingent of brothers whose task was to deliver food and supplies to Templars at the outpost of Doc, south of Acre. They had suffered repeated attacks from bands of marauding Mameluk Turks, who launched raids on the small castle from their base near Lake Tiberius in the east.

There were five of us in total, four on horseback and one manning the cart that carried the provisions. The others included the Temple’s new Seneschal – one Durand De Ros, originally from Burgundy, and a sergeant and a foot soldier who drove the cart. It was still early and a few clouds were rimmed with pearl as the sun glowered over the harbour. Masts and sails were dense around the long stone quayside as ships clamoured for land like a pack of hungry dogs. As I rode out I looked back at our headquarter: it was a sight to behold, perched on one corner of the city, surrounded by the turquoise waters of the Mediterranean. It was huge and impregnable. Four towers protected it from our enemies, whether human or elemental. And within its considerable girth lay numerous beautiful buildings, such as the Master’s palace, the Nunnery of St Anne and the exceedingly fine and noble chapel of Our Lady. The commandery was both Acre’s jewel and its shield, and was the envy of the other lesser orders. While the military orders shared a common faith and philosophy, rivalry was fierce and we rarely unified under a common banner.

We passed through Acre’s gates; the twin walls and high towers slowly fell away from us and the orchards and irrigated fields outside the city gave way to the wide and flat wasteland that was Outremer. The sun was scorching and a northerly wind swept sand across our faces and into our eyes. The horses churned up smoky plumes as we made our way deeper into the wilderness. All was silent, save for the rattle of our bridles. A vulture croaked in the distance. The landscape opened up before us, but there was little to see.

We travelled for some time in silence, well spaced in front and alongside the cart. I tried to remain alert, but soon grew saddle sore and distracted. My back ached as it alays did and my ankles began to chafe against my chainmail hose. Finally, the Seneschal spoke.

‘We can make the round journey in a day if we keep a good pace. If not, we’ll bivouac at the castle tonight and return at first light tomorrow.’

No one replied. He drew his horse across the path and pulled up alongside mine. ‘So, Brother Alaric. We have never spoken. But I know you are the son of Ranulph of York. I have heard talk of you.’ He cast me a disapproving look I had come to recognise from others over the years. ‘If you become a warrior as fine as he, we shall not be afeared of the heathen for years to come.’ I noticed a hint of sarcasm in his voice. I retorted with some wit of my own:

‘Well then, I have a lot to live up to’ I replied, pushing my helmet up. ‘I pray I can do him justice. ’

‘Indeed. Let us pray for that’ he murmured, smoothing his grey beard down against the wind. Durand was a knight from another age – one that still had some regard for the white habit and red cross of the Templar; in his eyes the Order of the Knights of the Temple of Solomon was still the most feared and renowned confraternity of warriors in Christendom. I looked across at the old bastard, pompous and proud in his saddle. He reminded me of my father, whom I loved as Christ himself must love his own father. But brother knights of a certain age were all the same: traditionalists resistant to progress and unmoved by the demands of a changing world – and an increasingly capable enemy.

Durand grumbled from beneath his rampant beard. ‘Besides, you carry a sword of great wonder and reputation. It is charmed I am told. May I see it?’

I knew it would come to this. Most brothers who came to me offering a hand of friendship just wanted to lay eyes on the sword. Its reputation as an example of rare quality preceded me. Indeed, it proved a subject of some jealousy amongst older knights such as Durand who, by tradition, would attach various small relics to their own weapons. I sighed, reluctant to share the sword with this man. But I knew he would covet it, and his envy would please me. So I withdrew it from its scabbard and handed over the pommel end. He took it and felt its weight, examining the perfect long blade and the curious manner in which it ended in two points, not one – like a forked tongue. He made the odd practice swing and chop, left and right.

‘I am amazed at its lightness’ he said grudgingly. Clearly, he thought the weapon belonged in the hands of a much older, more pious servant of God. He also looked uncomfortable in its presence, almost literally keeping the thing at arms length. Just as my father used to. He too was ambivalent towards it – I knew he mistrusted anything less honest and simple than cold steel. My weapon had a strange aspect and this made it something unknown and therefore unpredictable. Father feared it, as a dog fears the unfamiliar scent of strangers. Indeed, he rarely spoke of it or referred to it, never looked at it and certainly never attended the clandestine congregations in my cell when it was presented to the privileged few. In fact, he was far from impressed with the cultish tendencies a small group of brothers displayed. However, he did see clearly how the sword boosted the morale of the Templars. It was a totem. It was heathen-bane. It would bring victory to the Templars and to Christendom, vanquish the foe and restore Outremer to its former glory. At least, this is what some believed. I knew it was all so much hollow optimisut father’s pride – if he possessed such a thing – was tempered by a strange melancholy. Occasionally I saw him observing me from afar and I perceived his leathery features distorted into an unfamiliar mask of regret. Almost distress. And there were others who resented the sword ending up in my possession, such as the Marshal Raynaud le Jaune. He stood quietly by, plotting my downfall, waiting patiently for the moment when I would fall from grace and my destruction would be assured. Then he would be rid of me forever.

Durand handed the weapon back. ‘And the workmanship is unparalleled. How came you by it?’

‘I didn’t’ I replied. ‘It found me.’

‘Some relics have a way of seeking out their protectors mused Durand . He was quiet again for some time. Finally he asked, ‘have you named it?’

‘Named it? Of course not. It’s a sword, not a horse. Why, should I?’

‘Certainly you should!’ he asserted, feathers ruffled. ‘All great swords are named. I christened mine Laqab Allah, which means Slave of God, shortly after I hacked the head off my first Saracen.’

‘A Moslem name?’

‘Yes. Just a bit of fun really’ he chuckled. ‘I tell the infidel dogs that story before I finish them off. They don’t like it. But it’s brought me good fortune so far. If God wills it, that fortune will continue.’

We rode until early afternoon. Durand ignored me, no doubt for the same reason as most other men – envy. It did not concern me; he was a fat old oaf and he would probably die soon. But I kept my eye on Kaspar; he was an annoying little swine, but I didn’t want him getting caught up in any bother. He was the first to spy the castle of Doc in the distance, nestling amongst scrub and bush on the side of a rocky hillock. It looked smaller than I imagined, and ill kempt. The order’s black and white piebald standard was visible, fluttering gently.

‘How many Templars are in there?’ I asked Durand.

‘Four. Plus five horses, three dogs, a pig and eight chickens.’ He set his horse to a gallop. ‘Come on’ he cried, ‘let’s make haste.’

CHAPTER 3

I stayed with the cart and brought up the rear, stopping by the main castle gate. The others were conducting a brief sortie around its perimeter. The castle itself looked as though it was partially built into the side of the hillock. In reality its rear walls abutted an incline where a dirt slide had raised the level of the surrounding land. Its shape was an irregular pentagon, with two circular towers towards the front and three smaller rectangular towers at the back. A gatehouse was set into the wall facing the main approach. From within, the squawk of poultry could be heard. I could hear Durand calling a greeting from elsewhere along the castle wall. Kaspar reappeared from around the side of the tower. ‘All seems well to me, but no-one is answering from within. And the main gate is locked.’

‘Is there another route in, besides the main gate?’

‘Not that I know of’ he replied, looking about him and removing his helmet. ‘Our best chance may be to scale those far walls next to the dirt slide. The walls are shallower there.’

Durand trotted back to our position.

‘What do you make of it?’ asked Kaspar.

Without answering, Durand dismounted and beckoned us over. When he spoke his voice was low. ‘The castle is occupied. I looked through an arrow slit on the rear wall. I am sure I saw a figure moving across the courtyard, but I couldn’t tell whether he was Saracen or Christian. There are one or two horses stabled.’

‘We must be sure my Lord, before we proceed’ asserted the sergeant.

Durand stoked his chin. ‘Whoever they are, I have already given them notice of our presence. But if it is our brethren who are inside, then they would surely welcome us.’

Kaspar spoke. ‘If the Saracen are in there, our only route in is via the rear walls. At their shallowest point, we can breach them from horseback.’

‘Agreed’ said Durand.

I did not think this the right decision and made a noise to suggest as much.

Durand frowned and looked at me. ‘Do you contest this plan brother?’

I answered his question with one of my own: ‘slipping over the rear wall like so many snakes – is this truly the best means to gain entrance for noble Templar brethren?’

Durand’s face grew stormlike; I was now questioning his bravery. ‘Do you have a better plan?’

‘Yes. Stand at the gates, shout our arrival. If the enemy is within, we will assault them when they make themselves known to us.’ It was a stupid notion, and I knew it, but I enjoyed ruffling a few feathers. And I wanted to make clear to those assembled that I was not a coward. A wastrel and a sinner maybe, but never a coward.

Durand looked at me as though I were possessed with madness. ‘We shall breach the rear walls from horseback. That is my order.’ He glared at me pointedly. ‘Once inside, I will open the main gates. You two -’ he continued, gesturing to Kaspar and me, ‘conduct a thorough search of the buildings. You –’, gesturing at the sergeant – ‘stay with the cart and driver. When the gates are open and you see my signal, bring the cart in.’

We all nodded and dispersed. Durand’s giant mount was the tallest. We led the horse to the far side of the castle and up onto the rocky valley side. Although I had voiced disapproval at the plan, I still wanted to scale the castle wall first. My legs were weak as I tried to clamber onto the horse’s back. Kaspar held the beast while I manoeuvred into a crouching position in the saddle. I looked briefly through an arrow slit and saw a squat stone keep and a number of small timber outhouses. A tiny stone chapel nestled in the corner of the courtyard. Apart from a few chickens, there was no movement.

‘I see no-one’ I whispered.

‘Over the wall then. And don’t loiter.’

I stood upright on the saddle and hauled my mail-clad frame onto the wall’s parapet, then over the other side. The drop was further than I had hoped. I landed awkwardly in a large mass of bushes and cursed as the chickens flapped and scattered. Before Kaspar could land on top of me I broke cover and ran towards an outhouse. Durand followed Kaspar over the wall. He stood up from amidst the bushes and ran out into the courtyard, towards the gatehouse. Kaspar and I scampered from one outhouse to another. One was a storeroom, another a smith’s workshop. I re-emerged and looked to see Durand reach the gatehouse. Kaspar looked across at me, shrugged and also began walking towards the main gates. I approached the door of the remaining outhouse, but was distracted by the small chapel nearby. A sword lay by its thick wooden door. I approached, nudging the door open and peering inside. I could see very little so crept further in, frowning as my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. The tiny chapel was an empty square of stone flags. At the far end of the church was a simple wooden altar. Approaching, I was assaulted by foul shapes and smells. A lumpen mass on the floor, something on the altar, a rancid odour. I gasped as my eyes made sense of the scene before me. Upon the altar was an embroidered red and gold cloth. And upon the cloth lay the heads of our four Templar brethren, crowned with a halo of black flies. I felt numb. Their decapitated bodies – all naked – were scattered on the floor – piled atop one another like sacks. The corpses yielded as I accidentally stepped on them to reach the altar. God alone knows why, but I had an overwhelming desire to hold one of those heads. Cupping it from behind, I lifted it – surprised by its weight - and examined it at close quarters. The skin was still warm and waxy; the eyes had no lustre. With a gloved finger I pushed up a lip to reveal a number of black teeth, creating a macabre sneer on the dead man’s features. The lip slid down again slowly. I held the head higher to see the neck wound; it was a clean cut – skin, then purple meat, then the white bone of the spine. A man yes, but no different to a pig carcass on a butcher’s slab. My mail-shod foot sucked away from the floor where congealed blood was spread like cooling fat. The air was thick with a ripe, sweet odour; the stink of death and putrefaction. Four young brothers, just like Kaspar, slaughtered in cold blood - executed. The hot, metallic taste of anger tightened the back of my throat.

I heard shouts from outside. Venturing a look I saw Kaspar kneeling over more bodies, half-hidden beneath a heap of refuse. Kaspar examined them, then stood up and looked about him. He saw me emerge from the chapel and waved. ‘Look’ he yelled, pointing at the corpses. ‘Dead Saracens. There has been a battle here. ‘

I walked over and examined the bodies myself; three Turks, pale and matted with straw and their own dark blood.

‘I have found our Templar brothers’ I said, nodding towards the chapel. ‘Heads removed and placed on the altar. Executed by my reckoning.’

Kaspar looked aghast. ‘The Virgin protect us.’

Durand appeared from the gatehouse and walked towards us. We appraised him of the situation while he scratched his beard.

‘So we have seven bodies’ he gled. ‘Four Templar and three Turks. No survivors.’ He frowned. ‘But if the heathen murdered our brethren, who killed these Turks?’ He kicked one of the corpses at our feet.

‘There must have been more of the dogs’ I said. ‘Our brethren killed these first, then more Turks arrived to murder our brothers.’

Durand nodded as he and Kasper walked to the gate. ‘There’s nothing more we can do here, save bury the Christian bodies. The infidel can stay where they are – food for the vultures.’

They unbolted the main gate and swung it open. ‘Get those supplies inside’ grunted Durand. ‘We’ll stay the night and be off before dawn tomorrow.’

As the heavy doors swung open I wondered dumbly how seven dead men had managed to fasten the gates from the inside. In a moment the cart was entering, manned by the sergeant and his foot soldier. But all was not well.

CHAPTER 4

Neither the sergeant nor his companion seemed to provide the horses any steer. The cart veered into the wall of the compound and the jolt caused the two to fall sideways. Even from my position some way back I could see the frozen rictus on their pallid faces and the bib of gore below their necks. Kaspar and Durand unsheathed their swords. There was movement at the edge of my vision. Two figures swept from the final outhouse, which I had neglected to explore.

Then I heard the nearby gallop of horses. One cavalryman stormed into the courtyard. All three of them were dressed in a manner I had never before seen – neither Muslim or Christian. They were thin and lithe; their hands were gloved; they wore leather armour around their arms, waists and calves. Red and orange fabric was wound tightly about their torsos and on their heads were strange, tall headdresses, bound to their skulls with more fabric. Attached to their helmets was golden eye-armour, while scarves obscured the rest of their faces. Durand was cut down almost immediately by the mounted knight. I saw him spin and fall, his stocky upper torso seeming to part from his lower body as he dropped. Kaspar and I drew close, back to back. I unsheathed my weapon as the footsoldiers approached. One was clearly bigger and stronger than the other – and he peeled away towards me. He charged with ferocity, raining blows with a pair of falchions on my sword blade with such force that I wondered if it would shatter, or whether my arm would give way first. I staggered backwards and fell into the dust, rolled out of range and clambered to my feet. I would last mere moments against his attacks unless I could think of something. He came at me again in a loping run, wrong-footing me by lunging right but striking on the left. I ducked, but not fast enough – his sword scraped down my mail hauberk, spraying links and slicing into flesh. I screamed and recoiled. Blood mixed with sweat and dirt oozed from a wound just beneath the shoulder.

I collapsed onto one knee, gasping for air and stole a glance at Kaspar. The lad was no match for his opponent. He had done well to last even for a short while, but the masked soldier hacked down upon him, opening up dark wounds in his arms and head. Kaspar crumpled and collapsed into the dust. I winced. Good God – the boy had been in Acre less than a day.

‘ size="2">This is it’ I muttered. ‘Death comes for me at last.’

Then something unexpected happened. I felt vigour channel itself through me like water irrigating a dead plain. This sudden vitality came from my sword arm, seemingly from the sword itself; a tingling heat – slightly painful – that passed through my fingertips, along the veins and tendons of my arm, and diffused into the rest of my body. When the sensation reached my heart it was like a hand of ice; I gasped at the clean, cold shock of it. The sword seemed to have come alive and was, in turn, invigorating its wielder. It animated me as though I was the puppet and it the master; it dragged me to my feet and raised my arm high.

The masked figure ran at me, both blades glinting in the blinding sun. I stepped aside and parried his blow. I struck out for his sword arm but he blocked and pushed me. Stumbling, I parried another blow from above and, on one knee, lunged forwards and hacked at his forward leg. I felt my blade make contact with bone, then the bone yield and snap. The soldier collapsed into the dust, half a leg missing and blood gouting from the wound. He screamed, waving one scimitar aimlessly. I kicked it from his hand then sliced his arm off just below the elbow, feeling no emotion beyond a vague desire for revenge. I placed one mailed foot on his huge chest and brought my sword point down into his eye. He gurgled, I twisted the blade. Then he died.

In the grip of a cold frenzy I ran the short distance to the Kaspar’s killer. He was almost too awed to react in time; as I reached him he sliced his weapon in a downward arc, which I knocked to one side as though he were a child. Swelled with a strange and ruthless vigour, I shoulder-charged him, sending him sprawling backwards into the dust. Then I raised my blade and impaled him through the chest.

The rider stared down at me, wheeling his mount in the sand, then he pulled at the reins and galloped away through the open gates. There followed a crushing silence. I stood in the dust, utterly spent and soaked in blood – whether the enemies’ or mine I knew not.

I looked about and breathed a prayer. I was the only survivor. The cart was full of provisions so, after tending my wounds I rested awhile, ate and drank, and considered the burden of burying the dead. I sat in silence, cleaning the blood from my sword and examining it anew. I could not explain that sudden surge of vitality, though I was grateful for it – it had saved my life. But was its source the sword itself – this thing of steel? It was a new sensation; the sword did indeed have certain inexplicable qualities, such as its annual Easter display; some thought it a holy thing, a relic. But it had never behaved thus before. It was almost as though the thing had awoken from sleep and roused itself in order to save me. Was that possible? And after all these years, why now? I looked at it, lying glistening in the dust, suddenly mistrustful of it, and muttered a prayer to St Ursula asking for protection from evil spirits.

Despite a pang of guilt I stole Durand the Seneschal’s ring of keys – such objects were of immense value when so much of the Templar compound was locked or out of bounds. The masked warriors were a mystery to me. Were they responsible for the deaths of both the Templars and the Turks? If so, they were clearly not allied to either side. Perhaps they were merely raiders, wandering Armenians or bandits from the Great Khan’s Golden Horde. I rolled one over. His scarf had fallen away, exposing his face beneath. He looked pale and gaunt, with sharp fatures. And his lower jaw had been removed. Blood and bile now dribbled from the exposed hole in his neck. This was also the case with the other two. Were they criminals, their disfigured faces a punishment for their sins? Either way, I hoped never to see their kind again. But did I notice that they wore tall boots of excellent workmanship, so decided to take a pair for my own.

The graves were hurried and largely ineffectual – hungry desert predators would be gnawing at the carrion before long. I said a prayer for Kaspar’s soul and gathered my kit, climbing up to the castle’s parapet for a view of the road back to Acre. I had decided to leave the cart and provisions; what was most important now was to return to Acre as quickly as possible – a lone Templar knight was easy prey for marauding Turks. The sun was low and red in the sky, turning the scrub to the colour of flame and casting a bronze glow across the desert floor and rocky hilltops. Then I saw them. Four horsemen in the distance, hunched thin and low on their mounts. They were facing me, immobile, seated like vultures. Their long silk capes rippled and thrashed in the quickening desert wind. There was no question that they were of the same stock as the men who attacked the castle, who had killed Durand and Kaspar. They knew I alone remained within the castle and they waited for me. I could not escape them. If I stayed where I was they would launch an assault; if I rode out to meet them the four would charge me. Either way, the odds were not good. My legs trembled and bowel loosened; I had been close to Death many times before, but on this day I could almost smell her stench, feel her breath on me. She has been a constant companion; all men of blood know she is always at their shoulder, some even gain comfort from it. But on this day I did not want her to come for me, although I did not see how I could escape her wretched grasp. I turned away and leaned against the stone battlements, breathing deep to stem the rising panic. My mind raced – to attack would mean certain death, to surrender would mean decapitation, or torture first. I was terrified. I had heard tales of one knight routing ten infidel. And I had seen with my own eyes a rank of armoured knights charge and rout an army many times its size. But those thoughts did nothing to halt my nausea. I stole another look from my vantage point. The riders had not moved; they remained impassive in the desert wind.

‘So be it,’ I whispered. I had decided to fight. ‘May Christ guide my hand as I teach them the meaning of malecide.’

I leaped down from the battlements and ran across the courtyard towards the stables, where I found what I was looking for – a rack of lances. Of the two horses stabled, I took the largest, a spirited stallion courser with steady, fearless eyes. Heart pounding, I hastily tacked the beast, grabbed my shield and helmet and swung myself up into the saddle. The horse was well mannered and obedient, which was a boon – a poor mount can seal a knight’s fate even before swords have clashed. I had already decided to name him Kasper, in honour of the young knight who had died in battle mere hours ago. It was commonplace to name our horses after fallen comrades; we all recognised the need to keep their memories alive in some small way. I reached for my chosen lance, lowered the visor on my bascinet and trotted out through the castle gate to the wilderness beyond, where my enemy awaited. Sweat ran into my eyes but I was no longer afraid – only full of anger and violence.

In truth a heavily armoured knight was as fair match for four light cavalrymen, especially as they did not carry spears or bows. The horsemen roused when they saw me emerge. I halted for a moment, so they could acknowledge that I had come to fight, and intended to take the fight to them. Then, without another thought, I spurred my horse to a gallop and charged into the breach. On my advance, the four riders also urged their mounts to a run and fanned out. Kaspar grunted as we sped across the plain; the wind, the earthy rumble of hooves and my own breath were the only other noises. The riders drew close. My lance would impact well out of range of their swords; I was attacking on the outside of their line, so would not be cut down from the left as I passed. The horses’ hooves were like thunder. I aimed the tip of my lance and felt a sudden, jarring impact. There was a sharp sound of splitting wood; one rider violently catapulted backwards from his horse and somersaulted into the sand; the other horsemen sped past in a thick cloud of dust. One rider lay still, face down. My lance tip was splintered. I discarded it and wheeled Kaspar about-face before the other riders had a chance to turn. I galloped after one of them – the slowest, drew my sword and hacked at him from the outside, as he was about to turn. I sliced him across his back, and then chopped at his neck and head. The rider tried to turn away from me, in the opposite direction, thereby exposing his undefended rear a second time. I sliced at his sword arm, made contact and cut through it. His sword and forearm fell away into the dust. I hacked at his head one more time. Something underneath his scarf gave way; blood gouted from beneath the fabric and he collapsed from his mount. The two remaining horsemen had rallied and were circling me warily.

‘Who are you?’ I shouted, gulping down air.

They did not reply. I swung my sword at them. ‘What do you want with me? Speak, damn you.’

Suddenly they appeared agitated. One of them gestured wildly. The other looked and nodded. Unsure whether to engage they half turned away from me and, in the confusion I sped towards one, taking him off guard, and sliced him from the nave to the chaps. His body slid apart as it fell from his horse; blood and gore splashed onto the desert floor. The remaining rider was already urging his horse into a gallop and I knew I could not catch him. Let him go then, and tell the tale of the lone Christian knight who vanquished four opponents. I dismounted, throwing my helmet into the dust and wiping the sweat from my eyes. I briefly checked the corpses for valuables, but found nothing except three more faces with their jaws removed, and I wondered again who these deformed villeins were. Still, it mattered not. They were dead and I was alive; I was victorious. I trotted back to the castle, partook of more provisions and collected the horses. Then, with a heart emboldened by triumph and a body weakened by fatique, I rode out towards the dying sun and began the solitary journey back to Acre.

CHAPTER 5

The days following that unhappy mission, I made regular use of the keys I had stolen from Durand. I knew of a little-known exit-route into Acre from our compound via the ‘Templar Tunnel’ – an underground sewage system that passed beneath the base of its immense walls. Most thought there was only one entrance to our commandery – which was now locked and guarded. But there was one other. On many nights I would wade through the dank tunnels until reaching the second exit and then select a key from the stolen ring. The key opened a small but heavy oak door that led from a stone stairwell out into the corn Acre’s Pisan quarter. The city rested under a still, starless sky. A few drunkards still prowled the black streets; an echo of conversation could be heard from within the homes of the nobles and merchants; an occasional dog barked at the night. Shielded under a heavy cloak, I hugged the darkest parts of the streets and alleys until I reached the neighbourhood known as Bourel, and secreted myself into one particular house. The Byzantine slave boy who greeted me provided an escort across the courtyard, thick with the odour of jasmine, to the warm glow beyond, and into the arms of Giacinta, wife of the Vicopte Pancrazio Navarese. My lady’s scent was more intoxicating than the flowers in her garden. She led me to her chamber and bared herself, ushering in hours of passionate fury, ripe with wine and flesh, sweat and hashish. Then I lay amongst the rich fabrics of her bed, spent and listless, and watched the deep blue hyacinth beyond an open window nod gently in the gathering breeze. Giacinta drew close and touched me, seemingly with fondness. But I knew there was a purpose to her displays of affection. Every night spent in her company speeded towards the same inexorable conclusion. It was always the same: I came to her, we made love, I left. Did she not understand the consequences if I – a Templar – were discovered outside the commandery’s borders at night?

She spoke to me, her voice kind but firm. ‘My dear, you should make haste.’

‘Make haste for what?’ I replied.

The smallest of sighs escaped her lips. ‘I do not know when Pancrazio will return, but I’d rather he did not find a young Templar between my thighs when he does.’

After so many of these secret rendezvous, I still did not know why I continued with the deceit. I behaved as a dog might, returning to a place where food and warmth was always offered. Giacinta was ten years my senior. She was also rich, but that mattered not. Maybe it was the curve of her neck, or the softness of her pillow that drove me. But I suspect she also provided a balm to my otherwise poisonous life. I mumbled a complaint. ‘Sometimes I think you use me as the Arab uses his best gelding. Your husband would buy you the crown of Jerusalem if he could afford it. He worships you.’

She smiled, and her brown eyes flickered in the half-light. ‘You may think so, but to him I am nothing more than his chattel. He is selfish and cunning – an unfortunate combination; he would sell me into slavery if it was of benefit to him.’

‘Then leave him. Run away – with me. We’ll escape tonight. Leave acre. We can sail for Cyprus; I have friends there.’

Giacinta chuckled – a sound as sweet as birdsong. ‘Ah. If only it were possible. But no. My husband is also proud and malicious – he would hunt us down and kill us both. Or rather, he would find a thug to do murder on his orders.’

I scoffed at this. ‘A Templar knight would not fall victim to a petty thug. I would open up the villein’s throat. And then I would do the same to your dear husband!’

Giacinta threw me a strange look. ‘You should beware him. He keeps dangerous company, especially in recent weeks. Something is about to happen to our beloved city. None of us are safe.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I do not know. Perhaps it is talk of the heathen army that musters to attack us. Perhaps something else. Either way, despite his many faults, my husband is influential. In these troubled times such a man is useful. This is why he must and shall remain my husband. And it is why you must go.’

I stroked her naked skin and brushed my nose against hers. ‘Why do you allow me to come here for a stolen hour when we both risk so much?’

‘I have my reasons’ she replied, and then kissed me gently. ‘My sweet boy, you may stay for a while longer. But you must leave before sunrise – I will make sure of it.’

****

Shouting roused me from an intoxicated slumber. There was a commotion outside, the rattle of locked doors and weapons. I heard a voice and knew immediately that it was Raynaud le Jaune, the Templar Marshal. How did that bastard find me?

His voice was tight with fury. ‘Alaric you cur. Open the door. You whore-monger. Open this door now before I roast your plague-ridden arse over an open fire.’

The lady Giacinta crept to her chamber door and locked it.

My heart raced. ‘I must go my lady’ I said, hastily donning my clothes. ‘And I will not be able to visit you again. At least, not for some time’

She smiled wryly. ‘It is unlikely we will ever meet in the coming days in such circumstances, but rest assured our paths will cross again more than once.’

I did not understand her tricksy words, but had no time for further questions. She wrapped the dark cloak over my shoulders and pulled it across my chest. ‘Do not get caught’ she said sternly.

‘I will not’ I replied, clasping her slender hands. ‘Prester John himself could not catch me.’

Giacinta stroked my hair, as a mother might. ‘God keep you dear boy.’

With that, I climbed through the open window into the street below. Dawn was breaking and the city, though still grey and dulled with sleep, was beginning to rouse. I ran back through the streets with abandon, barely caring whether I was spotted or not. My overwhelming concern was to reach the Templar commandery before Raynaud returned. Finally I spied the towers of our compound and the gatehouse surmounted by a pair of huge gilt lions passant. I approached and hammered on the giant, studded oak door.

‘Michael, it’s me. Alaric. Let me in.’

I knew that my good friend, Brother Michael de Losinga, would be on guard duty. Bolts were drawn back and a smaller door, set into the larger, was opened. I stepped through. Michael stood beyond, wearing a wry expression.

‘What happened brother?’

‘Caught – almost’ I repliedathlessly. ‘By that rat Raynaud. Has he returned?’

His expression of mild amusement darkened to one of concern. ‘No, not yet. He was asking for you at Prime. You do not remember that you were escorting him to the harbour this morning?’

I had indeed forgotten, and cursed.

He nodded towards our dormitory. ‘Go and change into your habit, quickly. If Raynaud returns, I will tell him you were taken ill in the night. And wash yourself – you reek of woman.’

By the time I had returned, Raynaud le Jaune was waiting for me. He was accompanied by a sergeant and two turcopoles – native mercenaries drafted into the Order. I expected they were there to aid Raynaud in my arrest, so breathed deep and stepped forward, straightening my white habit with a kind of feigned nervousness. But I was not to be arrested. Raynaud simply glared at me disdainfully, as though regarding a particularly sizeable and pungent pile of horseshit. His looks were always pregnant with meaning; this one meant: you have pushed your luck this time. Henceforth I will make your life a living hell.

CHAPTER 6

Of all the things on God’s Earth I despised Raynaud the most (and the feeling was undoubtedly mutual.) I had become the object of his privations as soon as my father had begun his tour of duty a year ago. Yet on this morning, despite the previous day’s exertions, I was light-footed and proud as a peacock. I could think of no task or chore, no matter how demeaning, that might ruin my good mood. The source of my joy was this: my father was due to return today. And he would be bringing the Commander of the Land of Jerusalem with him, in order to rally the troops against imminent attack by the Muslim infidels. I felt a gnawing nervousness too, as no one was sure exactly when they would arrive. I also had a number of tasks to perform, which severely limited the prospects for shirking the daily duties. One of these involved accompanying Raynaud to a meeting with the Venetians and Genoese, in order to agree terms for access to the ports; they had claimed that the Templars were clogging the quays with galleys from their fleet. It would be a pointless and tedious engagement – such is the political life of a Templar. It had been recommended that I attend because I had been involved – at a superficial level I admit – in the administration of Templar imports and exports. To my credit at least, I speak good French, along with some Latin, Italian dialects and Arabic.

The hood on Raynaud’s white habit was down, exposing the black skullcap underneath. He was tall and sinewy, with a large Roman nose and small, shrewd eyes. His beard was black and unruly. He turned and beckoned for us to walk, which we did – out of the compound and towards Acre’s harbour. As we travelled the cobbled streets towards the sea he looked across the city, surveying it like a ruling demagogue. When he finally spoke, his words came fast and precise.

‘There is still work to be done on fortifying Acre and I fear that al-Ashraf will fulfil his Father’s oaths soon. A decree has been issued: the Grand Master has recalled every available man from Citramer to help us defend Acre.’ He expelled a sigh. ‘But we are hanging on by our fingertips.’

Silently I bade him sht up, and wished various curses upon him. Raynaud was a hypocrite. He secretly collaborated with merchants and reavers to develop a lucrative side-business in slave trafficking and other crimes; crimes that became known to me through mutual acquaintances. Yet while he publicly declared his devotion to the city and its peoples, he exploited the power and influence of the Templars to feed his avarice, to his eternal shame and damnation. The order was supposed to beat with one heart, fight with one soul and think with one mind. And despite my own hypocrisy, I suppose I clung to these tenets, as a drowning man clings to the hull of a sturdy boat. Raynaud was the sore on our feet that made us limp and grumble, weep and moan. He was mean, untrustworthy, godless and scheming and because I knew of his sin, he made my life as miserable as possible. It did not help matters that he also knew mine. And after my frantic escape last night… Well, who knew what sordid labours he had in store for me as punishment? I gazed up at the beautiful west front of the church of St Andrew, its carvings picked out in sharp relief by the morning sun, and murmured a prayer.

Raynaud’s tone became clipped. ‘And all the damn Venetians whinge about is how they can’t get their ships into the harbour. If they hadn’t brought those Italian drunkards into the city in August, we’d not need to plan a defence against al-Ashraf now.’

I cast my mind back to three months hence when a gang of drunken Italian builders had arrived at the city. They were not noblemen, simply lowly artisans with a few ducats to spend after completing work on a bell tower at Pisa. This was their first venture to the holy lands, and their so-called crusade turned to a drunken brawl when they discovered that Saracens were living and working amongst the Christians. They slit the throat of every Muslim in Acre. Personally, I did not care whether the blood that clotted the drains was Muslim, Greek or Pisan, but the Grand Masters of the orders feared the repercussions; such a massacre was a disaster. The heathen Sultan Qalawun had recently conquered Tripoli and could invade the north at any moment. He was outraged at the slaughter but died before he could act. Now our spies informed us that his son, al-Ashraf, had decided to strike the blow that would decide all our fates: he planned to mount a huge and devastating assault on our beloved city.

‘The Venetians are cowards’ I murmured, almost to myself. ‘It is said that they fled Tripoli when Qalawan arrived. They could do so again here and leave the job of evacuation to us.’

Raynaud heard me and turned, his eyes glinting. ‘Let them flee, Alaric. I would rather the Templars alone evacuate every last man, woman and child in Acre than indulge the Venetian’s whims.’

At that moment, our small party turned the corner and strode into the wide-open space that was the quayside. Amongst the early-morning bustle stood a group of twelve or so men. We headed in their direction.

‘The Teutonic Knights are here. And the blasted Hospitallers’ said Raynaud, leaning towards me.

‘As you predicted, my Lord.’

Raynaud grabbed my wrist then, and with a grip like a wolf’s jaw, drew me closer to him.

‘I have not forgotten your transgression. I’ll remove your manhood myself for fornicating with the Vicopte’s wife. But not now. I will deal with you later – as soon as this tedious little meeting is ended. In the meantime, keep that Godless mouth of yours shut tight. Understand?’

I nodded.

‘Good. If I hear one more word from you, I swear by Iblis himself that I’ll cut your tongue out – whether your father is here or not.’

The meeting would indeed have been tedious were it not for the presence of a strange figure I had never seen before, but resembling the warriors I had killed at the castle of Doc. The Vicopte Navarese, whose wife I had bedded mere hours earlier, was there to represent the Venetians. He was an oafish man: overweight, gimlet-eyed and wearing a preposterous red hat. But next to him stood a tall, thin figure, wrapped in orange silk from head to foot and resembling nothing less than a cadaver in its funeral shroud. The figure wore a tall headdress and his face was obscured beneath a black veil. Only the cold, pale, steady eyes were visible. Most disconcerting of all, those eyes did not leave me for duration of the meeting; they ignored all other distractions and followed me wherever I moved.

Raynaud noted the strange, silent figure also: ‘Vicopte, I am not acquainted with your colleague. Perhaps you would introduce us.’

‘How could you be expected to know us Sir Knight, when you are patently unfamiliar with the daily activities at this port’ he retorted, ignoring the offer of introduction.

Raynaud shrugged. ‘I am a busy man. Why are we here?’

‘The problem is simple’ began the Vicopte. ‘While Acre still has a Cathena and while the port remains in Christian hands, we Venetians have a right to moor our ships here. At least in our own quarter. Currently this is not possible.’

‘And how are the Templars implicated?’

‘Because your fleet blocks our access! How can we be expected to move goods in and out of the city if our ships cannot dock? The Bedouin and Syrians rely on us to land our ships and trade at least twice a year. Stocks of all manner of goods have been depleted since King Henry's coronation here at Acre.’

‘The fleet is every day delivering fresh knights, men at arms, weapons, equipment, timber and slaves, to prepare for the battle against that heathen dog al-Ashraf. Our galleys may be blocking your ships, but it’s to your benefit. You will thank us when the Mameluks attack – thank us for saving your arse.’

The Vicopte Pancrazio Navarese squealed in indignation. ‘We have cargo on board our ships now anchored in the harbour. Perishable – and expensive – cargo. If our ships do not moor soon, that cargo will be lost. And you Templars will be held responsible.’

‘And what of your friend? What are his interests here?’ I asked, nodding to the orange-clad figure whose eyes still bored into me.

‘He is a… a merchant brother from the north – a business partner and a friend of the Venetians. And you are in violation of our statutes. I can see that we will not resolve anything here today. Therefore we require that you attend a hearing at our courts where you will explain your actions on behal your order. If you fail to comply with our wishes, we will seek compensation through the Haute Cour. We have a right to land our craft and unload our goods.’

The Templars answered to no-one, not even the Pope. In the heat of the moment I suggested to the Vicopte ‘vaffanculo a lei, la sua moglie’ (a vile Venetian insult), which caused his shiny face to burn redder than ever. He hurled oaths and insults in return, and had to be restrained by a Hospitaller knight. Raynaud appeared disinterested and made to depart. I turned to follow him, but not before I had glanced back at the silent figure, clad in garb the colour of flame. His unblinking, icy stare was still upon me like a falcon on its prey. A gust of wind caused his veil to ripple and rise, revealing what lay beneath, and I saw that his emaciated face was missing its lower jaw. In its place was a ragged void from which threads of drool hung. He raised a gloved hand to hold down the veil and turned aside, his eyes finally uncoupling from mine.

CHAPTER 7

As we walked hastily back towards the Temple, Raynaud gestured for our guards to walk on ahead without us. He strode quickly and silently, his face tight with fury. We reached the perimeter of our stronghold and swiftly, without warning, he slammed a mailed fist into the back of my head. I tumbled forwards into the dust and looked up. His stare was hateful and my impulse was to stick a blade through his scrawny neck there and then. I looked him in the eye, waiting for the warnings, threats and litanies of promised punishments to begin again.

He looked about him, ensuring no other brothers were present, and pushed the sole of his boot hard against my face. ‘You simply cannot take responsibility for your own actions Alaric. I should not blame you. It is your father’s fault – he has protected you too long. Were he not beloved of the Grand Master, I would beat the insolence out of you once and for all.’ He stepped back from me, looked away but continued to speak. ‘Your father returns today, and it will be a dark day when he does, for I shall have to temper my persecution of his son. Do not mistake me; you are a lazy and unruly Templar. I have seen the way you use your wondrous sword as currency, exchanging a glimpse of it for favours and the like. And it is strange that only you should return from the expedition to Doc. You have heard the rumours? That you left Durand and the others to die?’

‘That is a lie’ I replied. ‘A damned lie. And one started by you no doubt to discredit me before our brethren!’

Raynaud’s mouth curled into a sly smile. ‘You are too much of a coward I think. Too much of one kind of swordplay, too little of another, eh?’ He laughed crisply and returned his gaze to me. He gestured for me to stand, which I did, and he dusted me off, picking at my habit and studying it for cleanliness. ‘You do understand that your father may not return at all, don’t you Brother Alaric?’

I looked at him, not fully comprehending. ‘Of course. I do not labour under any illusions about the Christian struggle. I know many Templars have been put to the sword, but my father is a strong and keen fighter. One of the finest in the history of the order. If anyone is to prevail against the infidel, it is he.’

Raynaud laughed out loud – a crow’s cackle. ‘You are a fool and a knave, Alaric. If you knew the truth about your father you would not hold him in such high esteem. He has a fine reputation, aye – for now, but for how long can you hide behind it? How long do you expect the order to turn a blind eye to your whoring and drinking, eh?’ He placed a hand on my shoulder. Raynaud was barely half a hand taller than I. I continued to meet his gaze.

‘If your father does not return, what then? You will have no protection against the likes of me. Imagine yourself as my plaything, and how sorry your life would be. I doubt you would last a month.’ He smiled again. ‘Remember – only the Rule of the Temple separates a humble knight of Christ from a murderer and rapist. Ask yourself where you sit: safely and obediently within the order, or outside its protection. Now, I am sure you have work to attend to. Go to your post and conduct yourself with humility and obedience, then report to me before Nones. I have some tasks well-suited to a little snake such as you.’

He turned and left. My buoyant mood from earlier had utterly vanished, Raynaud be cursed.

I shirked most of my tasks for the remainder of the day. A strange and acute loneliness took hold of me, so I sought the bustle of the workshop, where a number of other brothers were fixing and sharpening weapons and suchlike. I nodded to them in greeting and sat down in a corner to patch a hole in my tent, then began carving two new tent pegs. Running my work blade down the wooden post, I brooded on Raynaud’s comments. I hated to admit it but, given the chance, if he and I came face to face in the heat of battle, I would gladly slit his throat – and may God have mercy on my soul. And yes, it was true that I visited the brothels of Acre, but so did other Templars. So did many knights. I could write out a list of brothers who had committed sins of the flesh, not to mention the sergeants - they practically lived in the Arabian whorehouses. And indeed how can men resist their intoxicating lure? Why should they even, when their parched throats are sated with the freshest water and the finest wines, and their tired and mangled bodies are cleansed with rosewater and anointed with lotus oil? The journey to the fleshpots is a journey into peace; the night becomes soft and hazy as the wine soaks through the veins, a deep pool of red and gold and black. We recline on cushions in the dark and watch the girls and the scented candles dance; we imbibe more wine and toast the moon and the stars, and the haze of unknowing descends upon us and we forget the toil of our miserable broken lives. Then we can smile again because, for just a few short hours, we have forgotten the stink and filth of our perpetual holy war.

It is said of the Muslim Assassins that their master would command absolute loyalty by drugging his followers with hashish, whereupon they would fall asleep. On waking, an earthly paradise would be revealed to them – a cornucopia of flesh and wine and food. Their Master would tell how they had tasted heaven and that, should they do his bidding and die in the process, the same paradise would await them in the afterlife. I too would fight like a dervish should such pleasure await me. Alas, I have only the promise of martyrdom – to sit with Christ, alongside his Holy Mother and the Saints. Yes, I would be reunited with my lost companions – but what then? No cause to fight for, no evil to vanquish? Let it be known that I would battle on this earth to my last breath to save a brother knight, or kill a heathen. But for martyrdom? I care not for it. God knows, we sinful mortals have charted the regions and principalities of Hell well enough. But what of Heaven? What lies there for us when we die? Not even the priests and plosophers can describe it.

Such were the questions that plagued me, Alaric of Sarafand, knight and brother of the Order of the Temple. I am a good swordsman, despite what Raynaud would say. And I am, as one would hope, a superlative horseman. I am also a poor falconer and an inexpert huntsman (hunting is banned by the order.) I am an adequate carpenter, a loyal friend, a student of languages and a wretched Christian. Oh, do not mistake me - I believe in God, occasionally pray to our Lord Jesus Christ, the Holy Mother, our patrons Saint Euphemia, Saint Ursula and all the others. But I am weak of will and steeped in sin – all seven of them. I will have my fill of women, drink wine to excess and fill my coffers with the spoils of war. I am resentful of my enemies’ successes and I avoid all tedious and demeaning tasks as much as possible. I am certainly proud, and quick to anger like my father. And my hands are stained with the accumulated years of murder; I could not tell you how many lives I have taken. This is my confession, and may God do with it as he pleases.

But I will not bring the good name of the Templars into disrepute; I admit that I am flawed, yet no more so than dozens of knights from other orders. And let it be known that the Templars never engaged in the rapine of women or boys at any time, unlike the Hospitallers or the Teutons. Relations with a man are utterly forbidden, although following my confrontation with Raynaud, I contemplated circulating rumours of his unnatural preference for young boys.

CHAPTER 8

I wandered aimlessly amongst the acacias and almond trees of the cloister, taking note to avoid Raynaud and any other officers who may have issue with my indolence. Skulking around the stables, I spotted Michael de Losinga, who had guarded the door to the Templar commandery that same morning. He was talking to his squire, who was tending the horses. I called to him and, smiling, he strode over. Despite my advice to Kaspar, I had a friend. Just one – Michael. He was completely trustworthy, extremely well connected and therefore always well-informed. His opinion was worth its weight in gold. Michael and I had been close since he saved my life during a particularly vicious clash with the heathen at Tripoli. Thereafter we fought together on many occasions, looking out for one another where possible. I managed to return the favour more than once. We were brothers in arms, brothers in blood.

‘Brother Alaric, I see Raynaud has failed to remove your balls – again’ he said, shaking my hand warmly. ‘Unless I am now talking to a eunuch.’

‘As far as I know they are still intact,’ I replied, looking down. ‘Raynaud would have to send my arms and legs asunder before he reached my manhood.’

‘You treasure your jewels above your sword arm? I see. While one sword grows tarnished, the other gets a regular polish…’

I glared at Michael momentarily, but then we both laughed. ‘I am sure I saw you in the fleshpots recently. You were leading two giant Nubians towards your bedchamber…’

‘Not I. Maybe your brain was addled from too much hashish. Or maybe such a thing is your heart’s secret deire.’

‘I think not!’

We laughed and began to walk. ‘But tell me’ he continued, ‘what news? What of your father? He has been gone too long – the order is poorer in spirit while he is away. I hear he is due to return shortly.’

‘That much is true. He should return today, according to dispatches. But I am unsettled Michael. I fell foul of that merdaille Raynaud this morning – he knows everything; the whoring, the drinking. And he warned me that my father might not return. There was a strange look in his eye. I cannot explain it, but I do not trust him.’

‘Who does?’ replied Michael. ‘Raynaud is a weasel of a man. He has more enemies within the order than amongst the infidel hordes. If he spent as much time devoted to battle as he did to petty squabbles and politicking, the heathen would have retreated to Egypt by now. Do not worry my friend. Raynaud is a pragmatist, if nothing else. He knows that these are dark times for Chistendom. The Mameluks have unified the Muslim warlords. Now they are an organised and powerful fighting force. Every week, another Christian settlement falls to their hand. Outremer was once a majestic kingdom, but now it has withered to almost nothing. This city of Acre is all that remains of our once great Empire. We are the last vigorous bough on the tree of Christendom. Our final stand will be here, on these very streets. Raynaud knows this. He knows how fragile our position is. It is only a matter of time before the infidel triumphs and drives us into the sea. The walls beyond Acre are dangerous – they are enemy territory now. Make no mistake, your father and his cohorts are in utmost danger while they travel through the wilderness. But if any man, nay – any Templar – can reach Acre alive, it is your father.’

I smiled weakly. ‘You are right, as always’ I replied. ‘I hear that al-Ashraf has amassed an army of one hundred thousand, and it is marching on Acre now from the south. We really do not have long, do we?’

‘No, I do not think so.’ Michael sighed and looked pained. ‘And yet the population does not sense the danger – they cannot smell the wolf at the door. Their splendid isolation will be shattered when the Mameluks lay siege. The heathen are ruthless as well as godless, raping and slaughtering without care.’

‘Come the time, at least the Templars will make a stand. To the last man if necessary. I just hope I get to Raynaud before the infidel.’ I smiled at Michael wryly.

‘If that is your wish, no doubt your time will come.’ He looked me up and down, his eyes resting on my scabbard. He nodded at it. ‘And your sword..? It is safe and sound? Well-tended and thirsty for heathen blood?’

I had told Michael about the battle at Doc, and how the sword had seemingly come alive. He listened and did not judge me, although I could not tell if he believed me or not. But he knew the weapon was special, was more than just tempered steel.

My hand went to the hilt of the weapon at my side. I withdrew the blade instinctively an inch or so. I nodded. ‘Yes Michael. It is restless - a caged lion keen to hunt.’ And indeed in my head the blade seemed to growl with impatience.

‘Good. We will need it, come the battle.’ Michael looked back towards the stables. ‘Brother Alaric, I have to go. I have many things to attend to.’ He shook my hand again and then departed.

‘God keep you brother.’

‘And you. And keep away from the Nubians!’

The Temple was busy. More reinforcements were arriving from Citramer and elsewhere, in anticipation of the infidel’s assault on Acre. After Mass, the refectory was as full as it had ever been. I sat by myself this time. Sun-starved faces of our brethren from colder climes in the West lined the trestle tables. Compared to them, I had the complexion of a Saracen. I could be mistaken for a Moor, were it not for my blond hair, bleached whiter by the fierce Arabian sun. Indeed, it is said that the sun here is so powerful it drains colour from everything, from hair to horse dung.

I spoke briefly with some Westerners – a group of brothers from London – after noting how they abused the native turcopoles who fought with us. I had to explain that the turcopoles are mercenaries, although many had accepted Christ and repudiated the word of Mohamet. The London-folk were dismayed that we fraternised with the Saracen at all, even those who were good Christians; in fact, they thought such a thing impossible. They were aghast when I mentioned how, at our Temple in Gaza, an Infidel noble had converted after witnessing the bravery of the Templars in battle, eventually joining the order as a knight. I asked the fellows about England and the City of York, where my father was born. I was always interested in finding out as much as I could about his native country. One described how it was known as the Byzantium of the north, and this made the others roar with laughter; I assumed this was an example of English wit, and therefore a lie. In general, they said, the wine was poor and the weather was worse, though the land was green and fertile, and hunting was particularly excellent. York, they said, was a city of churches and cesspits, and they disapproved of its location, being too near to Scotland. A Templar chapel was based there however and, should I ever visit, they assured me I would be most welcome.

My thoughts wondered. The bustle in the compound made me anxious; the nausea that comes with expectation stirred in my gut. I briefly contemplated the memory of my father. I had last seen Ranulph over a year ago, but I could always recall the image of him as if he had departed a day ago. He was tall and athletic, proud in posture, slow and methodical in movement. He was economical with speech and, being wholly untutored, could neither read nor write, but he felt no shame in this. To him, a knight’s vocation was clear and straightforward – to lead an honourable life. Too much learning bred confusion and equivocation. Some took his brevity for piety, which was certainly true, or for meekness, which was certainly untrue. He was quick to anger and would not suffer a fool, and would always favour physical punishment over a verbal battering. When matters of discipline arose, my father saw that the lash quickly resolved any misdemeanour. He was rough and physical and I had been flogged by him a number of times. But I never hated him; I always felt only pride, or awe, or sometimes fear. He knew some of my faults, but nothing of my whoring; on the whole I was the apple of his eye. And to my shame, I took advantage of that fact. It was widely known that that the Grand Master of the order regarded him as one of his finest knights, as a confidante and a member of the inner circle of long-serving Templar nobles. Although he had never secured a senior position within the order’s hirarchy, he was regarded with the same level of respect as a high-ranking commander. He would never admit that his lack of learning had denied him the opportunity for promotion; in all likelihood he would have refused the position. Promotion meant administration and bureaucracy – these were anathema to him. His loves were fighting, riding and prayer.

I was about to leave the cloister and attend Nones in the chapel when a commotion at the entrance to the Temple compound turned our heads. Above the sound of the chapel bell, I heard a brother shout, ‘The Commander of Jerusalem is here. He is near the gates of Acre, at the tower of St Nicholas.’ Father had come home!

CHAPTER 9

I broke into a run, following a number of other Brothers out of the Temple gate and through the busy streets of Acre.

By the time I had arrived at the tall, arched gateway, a sizeable congregation of Templars was present. Camel-mounted Bedouin, wrapped in dusty blue and black robes, watched us impassively from beside the gates. Vendors crouched behind huge baskets of chicory and limes and waited patiently for the bustle to pass. A few curious Hospitaller knights conversed with a Templar sergeant, seeking information on the nature of our agitated gathering. Even the two city militiamen, posted on guard duty at the gates, stared in anticipation through the archway into the desert beyond.

First to cross the threshold was a group of mounted Templar knights, no more than eight in total. They were hunched low in the saddle; helmets removed, tattered and caked with blood and dust. One of the brothers clung wearily to a torn and stained piebald standard. They swayed listlessly from side to side as their mounts loped disconsolately towards us. Behind them followed two sergeants, both wounded and fatigued, leading a number of riderless horses. An older man emerged after these, upright in his saddle, but clutching a blood-soaked arm. His eyes were dull and listless. Two exhausted but uninjured helmeted knights flanked him. I surmised he was the Commander of the Lands of Jerusalem. Nearby rode a black-cloaked Saracen. He was followed by a miserable rabble of battered turcopoles and foot soldiers. My heart seemed to hang on a beat. No more brothers appeared. My father was not amongst them. This was not right. Maybe I had missed him. I ran to the head of the party and checked their faces again, then grabbed the reins of a knight’s horse, forcing the whole procession to halt. He barely lifted his head to look at me when I addressed him.

‘Where is Brother Ranulph?’ I asked breathlessly. ‘He should be amongst your party. Where is he? I am his son, Alaric.’

The man who I guessed was the Commander spoke. He seemed to rouse at the sight of me, and regarded me with a mixture of fear and disdain.

‘Alaric! Ranulph’s son. What am I to do with you? Trust you as I once did your father, or have you thrown in gaol where I can keep sight of you?’

His words made no sense to me. He spoke as though I displeased him, but I had never met the man before. ‘My Lord, I meant no offence. I merely seek news of my father.’

The Commander sneered. ‘Of course you do. You are your father’s son. He is dead. We were ambushed by a horde of Muslims en route to Acre. Brother Ranulph was killed during the attack, as was over half my men. Now get out of my way; let us proceed to the Temple.’

The cortege continued on into Acre. A few brothers gathered around me to offer consolation. I stared up at the Commander as he passed, grief and hatred etched into my face. He did not meet my eye again. I realised I was being observed from elsewhere and switched my gaze to the Saracen behind him. His bright unblinking eyes bored into me from beneath a black kaffiyeh. His lips creased into a thin smile and his head tilted in the slightest of nods.

I exploded then, like a wounded hound, and launched myself at him. The brothers struggled to hold me back.

‘Who are you, you bastard?’ I screamed. ‘How dare you? How dare you look at me, you filthy stinking damned heathen scum!’

The brothers knocked me to the floor and held me in the dust.

‘Calm down Alaric’ said one. ‘You are grief-stricken.’

‘Your father died a martyr’s death.’ soothed another, ‘but we will pray for you brother.’

‘Shut up!’ I yelled, still raging and writhing in their grasp. ‘By Our Lady, I care not. God has deserted me. Now let me have my revenge.’

From that moment my recklessness knew no bounds. Blind and indifferent to the consequences, I marched back to my cell in the Temple dormitory and ignored the call for Vespers. Unlocking my coffer, which contained everything I owned, I grabbed a pouch of coins and my sword, and stormed out of the compound. Some brothers called out entreaties as I left, but they remained unacknowledged. At that moment I had no fealty to the Order. Instead I paid allegiance only to a madness within me – a furious and lusty craving for vengeance and oblivion. I looked up across the city. Before me the arching, cloudless sky was washed with a crimson dusk. And like the sun, I descended. Down into the fitful and diseased heart of Acre, into the bloody night where I feasted on all of its temptations without deliberation or regret.

It was late when, addled with wine, I lurched from another hashish den into the fevered darkness. I passed through the teeming alleys, past open fires and roasting meat, past lepers with maggot-ridden stumps and thick clouds of flies, through the ripe odour of dung and the scent of coriander, sweet sorax and frankincense. Beggars clotted the streets; Jews, merchants, Greeks and Arabs congregated around market stalls. Nubian slaves and exotic, fleshy pleasure girls brooded from doorways, illuminated by the bobbing and dancing glow of fires and candles.

An old, hunched Christian invited me into his home, no more than a hovel. His misshapen body was a sack of bones and flesh, swathed in rags. From under a black, filthy turban, his red eyes regarded me as he made sweet mint tea. Passing me a cup, his ruined mouth puckered around a hashish pipe and he leaned forward conspiratorially.

‘There’s more than a few Templars passed through these brothels in my time’ he wheezed, waving the pipe stem about him and cackling.

I nodded but was silent. My mind was fogged with grief.

‘Been here thirty years now I have’ he continued. ‘Took the cross on account of my adultery see? Came over from Lincoln and liked the weather – heat suits me; reckon I was born in the wrong country. I knew I couldn’t put up with the bloody English weather for much longer.’

‘Lincoln. Is that near a city called York?’ I asked, raising my eyes.

‘Indeed it is. That where you’re from?’

‘No. It is my father’s birthplace.’ I stared into the fire, warmed by the opportunity to talk about him awhile. ‘He joined the order as a confrere knight many years ago. I’ve heard stories about the place, but never visited. Indeed, I have not left the Latin East since I was born, all of twenty-six years ago. I am told I was born is Sarafand…’

‘Which makes you a poulain – a Syrian-born Christian’ interjected the old man. ‘And where is your mother?’

‘I have no recollection of her. My earliest memories are of the Dominican priory at Cyprus. I spent my childhood there.’

I was numb with drink anyway, but my loss was further calmed by the old man’s presence, the tea and the hashish. His decayed eyes had been resting on my sword for some time. He gestured at it and coughed throatily.

‘There’s a tale behind that fine blade I’ll wager’ he growled.

The story of my sword, much-renowned amongst the Templars and beyond, was indeed strange, and I had certainly told it often enough.

‘I’ll tell you it for another pipe of hashish.’

The old man agreed, and so I began.

CHAPTER 10

I gazed into the flames and beyond them, ruminating on my childhood spent in prayer and learning. During those early years at the priory I quickly discovered that the contemplative life was not a path I could wilfully choose to follow. My father had similar thoughts. When I turned eleven, he removed me from the cloister and placed me in the care of his friend, one Hugh de Constantino of Cyprus, who was to tutor me in the ways of chivalry. His manor house had an orange grove and looked out over the low hills of Kantara to the azure sea beyond. From Cyprus I could see Outremer on the horizon – the Crusader States where the military orders, and my father, defended the lands from the incursions of the infidel. Hugh was an excellent teacher in the martial and the liberal arts. He was generous with his knowledge and I learned much from him on the subject of languages, geography and astronomy.

On my sixteenth birthday I was knighted. My father was not able to attend. I prayed in the de Constantino family chapel throughout the night; it is tradition for all knights in waiting to spend the night in silent contemplation and prayer. Beneath God’s firmament I prostrated myself at the altar and prayed long and hard, with utmost sincerity. I prayed that God would give me the strength to adhere to the commitments of knighthood, that I would remain chaste, noble, pious, obedient and courageous. I prayed for God’s protection in my forthcoming engagements, in the many bloody battles yet to be endured. I meditated on the mystery of knighthood, on the transformation of boy to man, man to warrior; from man to more-than-man. It thrilled me to know that the next day I would be a knight, and I believed that it was every noble man’s natural vocation. What better way to spend a good and virtuous life than fighting well for one’s master, conquering the enemy and partaking of the spoils of battle? I looked around the small, cool, lonely chapel. The moon cast a silvered hand through the thick, narrow lancet windows and across the flagstones. I paced slowly around the hushed interior, my footsteps echoing through the silence. I stopped, sighed and looked towards the altar and the crucifix upon it. The cross - such a simple and perfect symbol for a knight: life and death, peace and violence, pride and sacrifice. What sacrifices would I need to make in my life, I wondered? Could I trust God enough to put my life in his hands? Could I, like our Lord, offer my life in order to save others? I knelt before the altar again and gazed up at the gilded crucifix above. ‘Give me the strength Lord’ I whispered, ‘give me the strength.’

I must have dozed, because when I roused I was lying on the stone floor of the chapel, wrapped in my own arms. The chapel was very still. I had not spoken, nor heard another sound, for what felt like an eternity. My young mind was hot and tired. I did not know how much time had passed, or how many more hours had to pass before dawn. The silence was oppressive. I sat up and looked around – something within the chapel had changed: the temperature had increased. It was now unpleasantly warm. Despite this, the hairs on the back of my neck stood upright and I shuddered. Even during the hottest summer days, the old heavy stone chapel remained a cool and welcoming sanctuary from the roaring sun. How could it suddenly grow so warm within, in the middle of an early spring night? I stood up, with the intention of trying the large oak door at the chapel’s west end, even though it was expressly forbidden for all knights in waiting to depart from holy ground. Then I remembered that Brother Guillaume, parson to Hugh de Constantino, had locked it from the outside. I was imprisoned until sunrise. There was a pressure in the chapel, like the still, heavy air before a storm, but more so. My head began to throb and ache and, as I pressed a hand to my forehead, I realised I was sweating heavily. The moonlight still pierced the darkness, but somehow appeared more solid; I felt as though I could reach out and snap each shard of limpid silver that stretched into the chapel’s vaulted interior. Indeed, the very air seemed thick and charged with energy. I cupped my head in one hand and looked slowly around. From the darkest corners of the chapel came movement. I focussed on the blackest shadows in the furthest recesses and gasped as I observed, disbelievingly, what seemed to be movement. A slow vapour began to curl from the stone walls, as though passing through them. It spread further into the chapel, then climbed upwards, like the thickest smoke from the blackest of chimneys. I stared aghast, but suddenly looked back in horror as I heard a soft whispering behind me. Then I heard more, and yet more; the disembodied voices became a swirling, sibilant choir. I lay on the floor and watched in terror as the black smoke spiralled above me. ‘Alaric’ the voices hissed. ‘Alaric geber… baraq… raqam… baraq… chazaq… sa’iyr… qalah… ‘adamah… tsaphan… Alaric bachiyr.’

This chanting continued, growing in intensity, seeming more insistent, but delivered at the same cadence and the same low whisper. The black smoke continued to rotate and gather atits unnaturally slow speed. I looked up at the crucifix on the altar table, which glowed like white-hot metal as moonlight struck its silvered geometry. ‘What is happening to me?’ I sobbed. ‘Lord, help me – protect me from this devilry.’ The voices were encircling me, moving with the smoke, repeating the same entreaty and referring to me by name: ‘Alaric geber… baraq… raqam… baraq… chazaq… sa’iyr… qalah… ‘adamah… tsaphan… Alaric bachiyr.’

I buried my head in my hands and lay curled against the floor, stricken with horror and praying with an intensity designed as much to block out the chaos around me as to invoke God’s aid. Such was my concentration that I did not notice the voices as they subsided, nor the heat decrease, nor the smoke dissolve and disappear into vapour. Sweat dripped from my chin as I dared to look up. The voices were so distant that they mingled with the birdsong outside. I stood up, breathing heavily. Without warning, one voice, speaking as though beside me, suddenly whispered in my ear ‘Alaric… bachiyr’. I gasped and span around, but saw nothing. The small chapel then faded back into normality. All traces of the unnatural visitation had vanished; the first chalky signs of dawn were visible through the windows and the terrible silence returned once more.

Brother Guillaume arrived presently to unlock the chapel. The sharp sounds from the west door as it was unbolted made me jump. Brother Guillaume swung the door open and walked in, sunlight streaming after him. He was carrying a bowl and a wooden cup. ‘Master Alaric – God give you good morning’ he said, shuffling into the chapel. I stood staring at him, unable to speak. ‘Are you well?’ he asked, his broad and shiny face smiling gently. ‘Did you manage to endure the night’s trials and tribulations? I have brought you some water from the well – for drinking and washing.’ My eyes followed him as he shuffled across the chapel and placed the bowl on the floor near the far wall. He stopped and turned to look at me. ‘Master Alaric..?’

‘Trials and tribulations – what do you mean by that Father?’

‘Why - the trials and tribulations of your night alone with the Almighty. Initiations such as these are rarely easy; they involve much soul-searching, contemplation and prayer.’ He smoothed away the sweat-matted hair from my forehead. ‘Was it difficult for you?’

‘I… cannot explain it. I was… had… a visitation.’

The parson looked surprised. ‘A visitation? From whom?’

‘I… I don’t know.’ I looked around the chapel. ‘I heard voices. They were calling my name but I did not understand what they were saying.’

‘Tremendous’, exclaimed Brother Guillaume. ‘A visitation… by the angelic host I would say. This bodes well for you – it is a good omen. The Lord smiles on you; he has chosen to mark the coming of your investiture with a moment of holy intermediation.’ He smiled at me with kindly eyes. ‘Come, you must prepare yourself for the day ahead.’ He beckoned me towards the bowl of water where I washed with an absence of attention, my mind dazed and still fixated with the apparitions of the night just ended.

Hugh and his sons, daughters and his enfeoffed knights eventually arrived at the chapel to see me dubbed. Hugh, at the head of this unrefined procession, was carrsword; it was wrapped in a leather rag, hanging limply in his open palms. I stood at the front of the chapel. He walked over to me and, in voice like cracked parchment, said ‘this sword was found before dawn, lying on your mat in your room. Do you know how it may have appeared there?’

I shook my head. I had never seen it before.

Hugh looked fretful. ‘So be it,’ he said. ‘We will discuss the matter further, at a more opportune hour.’ He beckoned to Brother Guillaume. ‘Let us proceed.’

The ceremony began. In time and with great solemnity I knelt before Hugh, my earthly Lord, and was knighted. Hugh used this newfound sword to dub me. I was now his vassal and was enfeoffed to him for a year. He did not look particularly pleased at the notion.

Later that morning, during the modest celebrations that followed my investiture, Hugh approached and took me to one side.

‘We must talk on the matter I mentioned earlier.’

‘Do you have the sword with you my Lord?’ I asked.

He nodded. ‘Come, walk with me. Let us visit the orange groves.’

We stepped outside and went to sit on a bench beneath the trees. Above us, a lone falcon wheeled in the blue sky. As Hugh spoke, he handed me the weapon and I placed it on my lap.

‘The sword is yours. Whoever put it on your mat intended that you should own the thing, of that I am sure. But I do not know how it got there. Everyone in the household denies any knowledge of it. Indeed, unless it is stolen, no one on my estate could afford such a weapon. It is one of the finest swords I have seen. The workmanship exceeds even the finest Spanish and Italian blades. Are you positive you know nothing of its origins?’

‘No. Nothing whatsoever.’

I unsheathed the weapon and examined it closely for the first time. The blade was very long, wide and straight. It was pattern-welded in a manner so exquisite that the designs suggested an ornate and forgotten script. Casting an eye down its length, I could see how perfectly smooth and untainted the blade was. It was also incredibly sharp. Bizarrely, the blade ended in two points, not one – like a forked tongue. The quillons were one piece of silvered metal, folded back down the blade at both ends. The grip was long – there was space enough for two hands – and was bound in dark, thick leather. The pommel was a simple cube, decorated at the tip with a small glyph. Most extraordinary of all was its weight. It was no heavier than a typical dagger. My heart both raced with excitement and trembled in fear.

I turned and looked at Hugh. His face was full of concern. ‘You are worried about its origins?’ I asked. ‘Do you think my father was involved in this?’

‘No’ replied Hugh, looking preoccupied. ‘No, I do not.’

I felt uncomfortable, as though he was keeping something from me. ‘My Lord, is there more to tell? You looked troubled at my investiture today.’

Hugh sighed deeply and looked out across the gently sloping groves to the hills beyond. ‘Yes. There is more to tell, although I do not know where to begin. And I do not know if it signals good or ill, but make of it what you will. The whole estate was at slumber last night, save for me – as you know, I find it hard to sleep in my later years. In my wanderings I walked past your bedchamber. And I saw something.’

I thought back to my own encounter in the church. ‘What did you see?’

‘You will think me a drunkard or a fool for saying it…’ he hesitated, then continued. ‘I saw coil of black smoke, but animated as though alive, and with an intelligence of its own. I watched it from a distance coil across the courtyard and through the door to your chamber. Then it left and continued away from the house, across the gardens and on to the chapel – towards you.’

I swallowed and nodded. ‘Yes. I saw it too. It came into the chapel and whispered strange words to me.’

‘Father in Heaven protect us’ muttered Hugo, looking terrified. He continued. ‘Shortly thereafter the household began to wake, and I asked the knights and servants if they had witnessed anything; none had, and I mentioned it to no-one.’ Hugh looked at me for a long time. ‘Now what do you think all this means?’

‘I do not know’ I replied, my voice cracked to a whisper. I described briefly what had befallen me in the chapel. ‘Brother Guillaume thinks it was a visitation by angels – a good omen. I am not so sure.’

Hugh stared at the ground, slowly shaking his head. ‘I do not know from whence this… apparition came, but it felt to me as though Iblis himself stalked our hallways last night. The omens may be good for you, they may be ill. But in God’s name be careful. And be wary of the sword – it may have a darker origin than Brother Guillaume suspects. I will look after you as I would my own son for as long as you are in my care.’ Hugh reached out and grabbed my arm. ‘You are a man now – only you can decide whether your father should hear about this. I will not willingly offer the information to anyone else. Only you and I need know of it.’

I smiled at him weakly. ‘You are good to me.’

He then left me. Thereafter, I could not look upon or touch the sword for days, and I retreated from the household like a leper.

CHAPTER 11

For a reason I could not fathom, dredging up those old memories made me weep.

The old man grunted. ‘It is a tale unlike any I have heard – and I’ve heard a few in my time.’

‘I am sorry to have burdened you with it’ I replied, feeling dulled and pathetic. I tried to stand up but collapsed sideways, scattering water and cups across the dirt.

The old man made a gesture and nodded to someone over my shoulder. Confused, I looked behind to see a huge Nubian shoulder his way into the creaking hovel. He grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and threw me hard against the fire; bright embers leapt into the darkness and I rolled in the dust, clumsily extinguishing my flaming surcoat.

‘Your father was right to mistrust your story’ the old man rasped, withdrawing into the shadows at the corner of his hovel. ‘Never have I heard such lies and fishwife’s tales. But that blade of yours is still worth a pretty penny. A gift from God or not, it’ll be on sale at market tomorrow.’

I was drunk, riddled with hashish, and about to be murdered, or at the very least robbed. The Nubian approached again, wielding a rough blade. Fury suddenly welled in me, cutting through my drugged stupor, and I swung my sword. It was a wild attack, but the blade bit deep into the Nubian’s torso. His blood sprayed the dirt and he collapsed to his heavy knees, his watery eyes flickering. I crawled to my feet and span round to face the old man, who whimpered and begged. I was not in the mood for showing mercy.

‘You shall not have my sword after all’ I snarled, bearing down on him. ‘But I will at least give you a taste, villein that you are.’ I plunged the double-pointed blade into his neck, just beneath his mean, scraggy jaw. Dark blood washed his filthy rags.

So much for loyalty between kinsmen. I was now in the grip of rage and grief. I stared at the corpses about me and spat on them. The hashish and the wine did not exert their usual influence; rather than shrouding me in their familiar cloud of unreason, they addled my anguish. I grew confused, and the tight knot of anger in my stomach boiled. I staggered out of the hovel and into a whorehouse that I knew well.

‘Give me wine and a woman’ I gasped at the master, tears and snot still streaming from me. ‘But not an Arab bitch, or I may slit her throat – and yours – in return.’

I chose a Spanish girl, from Porto that I had lain with before. We retired to a private chamber but my body resisted her touch.

‘Why do you spurn me today My Lord’ she asked, ‘when yesterday you sought pleasure in my arms?’

I stared into the candlelight in silence then spoke, forcing the words out as though they were the bitterest vinegar. ‘Because today I am not the same man. Yesterday I was barely a man, but at least I had a will to live. Today I have lost even that.’

‘Then tomorrow you may regain it. And more. But what do men know of fate?’ She twisted to one side, reached inside a wooden chest beside our table, and produced a small vial. She refilled my cup from the wine pitcher and added the vial’s contents, then handed the cup to me.

‘Drink this, and the oblivion of sleep will come upon you. So now rest with the remembrance of death, and rise tomorrow with the knowledge that our lives will end all too soon.’

I looked at her, at the contents of my cup, and drank deeply.

I did indeed sleep for a short while. When I awoke, my head seared with pain, my eyes were hot and sore. I looked around the room and saw that the girl was asleep nearby. I slowly stood up, dressed, and moved out into the streets; they were still throngeven as the first sign of dawn turned the black sky to purple. Another bolt of pain shot through my head and I winced in agony. With each spasm my anger turned to fury. The bustle and chatter of the streets gnawed into my unfocused rage; each nudge and jostle from a passer-by bit deeper. I slipped and fell in stream of raw effluent as it tricked through a channel in the uneven alleys. I cursed and rolled out of the ordure, onto my back, and saw that my numb hands were cut. I heard laughter and looked up dizzily, trying to focus on the source. Two fat Arab merchants were observing me from a distance. With difficulty, I dragged my body onto its unsteady feet and stumbled over to them.

‘What do you want, you fat filthy heathen?’ I spat, dredging the words from my curdled mind.

One of the merchants pursed his lips and fingered his rich silk robe. ‘You are Templar?’

‘What of it?’ I sneered, leaning my face in towards his.

‘It is as we have heard’ said the other. ‘Of all the Franks, the Templars are indeed the most noble of Knights!’

‘And most honourable’ said the other, barely suppressing his mirth.

I studied both of them, swinging my head slowly from one to the other. The hatred within me was boundless. With a speed that surprised me as much as the merchants, I grabbed the quivering neck of one, drew my dagger and dragged the blade slowly across his face, pressing down and slicing into cheek and lip. I relaxed my grip and pushed his head aside, watching as he clutched his face and the blood began to seep from between his fingers. There was terror in his eyes.

‘No’ I said, grimacing. ‘Not a Templar. Not now.’

I turned and walked away, gripped by a blood-rage. I had a frenzied desire for violence that needed quenching. The back streets always held a few drunks looking for a fight, and I prowled the alleys for a time, but found no-one. I stumbled into the market square, where souqs were held and walked haphazardly down towards the harbour, away from the fleshpits. My only illumination now was the moon; its myopic gaze hung silent and pale. Across the city, in the east, the sky began to brighten. An occasional gull called out through the silence. Turning a corner into a steep cobbled alley, I collided with a figure walking the other way.

‘Watch your step you whore-sired piece of shit’ I said. Groggily, I stepped back and saw Raynaud the Marshall standing before me accompanied by the Saracen in black, who had rode with the Templars into Acre. At that moment I hated both of them more than any other souls on earth. My reaction was automatic and immediate. I lunged at Raynaud and plunged my dagger with all the force I could muster into his neck. I withdrew, and then stabbed again. He gasped and fell backwards, stumbled and collapsed heavily against a wall. I turned to the black-clad infidel. He was unarmed.

‘Brother Alaric’ he began hastily, but in excellent French, ‘do not kill me. You do not know who I am. We are all in grave danger…’

He was an older man than Raynaud; his beard was flecked with grey and his gut was plump with age. I grabbed his throat and bared my teeth. ‘You’re in danger now you dirty heathen. It was your kind that killed my father.’

‘Listen to me’ he persisted, his bright eyes shining, ‘I speak the truth. I am a friend of the Templars. Listen. Your father, he is –’

My blade, caked with Raynaud’s gore, sank into the infidel’s chest. He gasped in pain and persisted in trying to talk. I covered his mouth with my hand and stabbed again. He sank to his knees but held my gaze. There were tears in his eyes.

‘Alaric’ he whispered. His voice wavered and gurgled. ‘Alaric. You do not know what you have done. All is now lost.’

I pushed him back, so that his head cracked against the cobbles. Crouching over his recumbent body I hissed ‘shut up’, over and over, spraying his face with spittle, as I drove the sword home again and again.

CHAPTER 12

I must have passed out some time thereafter, because my next memory was of being roused from sleep by the hot sun and the cries of seagulls. I was lying in some scrub and bushes, in a niche against the city walls at the far end of the harbour. It was secluded here, but I had no recollection of how I came to be in this isolated spot. My head still thudded in pain and my entire body ached. I was covered in dirt, dried excrement and blood. My hands were cut and blackened with blood and filth and my shoulder and thigh throbbed with a sharp and steady discomfort. Squinting, I looked up and shielded my eyes from the sun; from its position high in the pale blue sky I knew the time was roughly midday. I sat back against the wall, wiped my face and reflected hazily on the consequences of the previous night, when all reason had abandoned me. Raynaud was dead by my hand, and murder of a fellow Templar was an offence punishable by death. Other lesser crimes resulted in, at best, the lash or, at worst, expulsion from the order. But the murder of a brother was a crime against against God, the Holy Mother, our patron saints and against the memory of all the brothers who had died valiantly on the battlefield. I had denied Brother Raynaud a martyr’s crown, crushed all hope for an honourable afterlife, when he might have acceded to his rightful place in Heaven alongside other dead brethren. I knew I had brought dishonour on the Order and they would be hunting Raynaud’s killer now. Of course, they would not yet know the perpetrator of this most heinous of crimes, but when they found me it would be obvious enough. And what would I do then? My pulse thudded in my head like a hammer. I supposed, when I was caught, that I would not hide my guilt; I would confess and acknowledge my punishment – with humility if possible. Despite my hatred of Raynaud, I regretted his death. Or rather, I regretted the consequences of his death. I had wished him dead many times, but not like this. In different circumstances maybe – in the heat of battle or as part of a deliberate plot. I blamed that bastard Muslim in the black keffiyeh – he drove me to commit this sin. I panicked; my heart pounded so hard I gasped, and my numbed head was incapable of thinking clearly. I was terrified about what I had done and what I should do next. I felt like weeping, but was too exhausted. That previous night, a deranged logic had led me to believe – on the spur of the moment – that Raynaud was some how caught up in my father’s death. The black-clad heathen had seemed to mock my grief aates of Acre. If the two were wandering the streets of Acre together, could I not assume that one must be in league with the other? Besides, who was the Muslim? He looked undistinguished enough, yet bore the aspect of someone enjoying a degree of privilege. I could only partially remember his words to me before I killed him, and they made no sense. They were the desperate entreaties of a man about to die. No matter. He was a heathen. While Raynaud’s murder was a crime against life itself, the Muslim’s death meant nothing to me.

It was too hot in the sun. My mouth was parched, my body ached and my soul was damned. Rising to my feet I grabbed the city wall, realising how unsteady I still was. I could not stay here, but where should I go? I coughed and spat blood, and realised that the world I had previously known now lay about me in ruins. I half-decided to slowly make my way back to the Templar commandery, despite the consequences. My white habit was the colour of dung. I groped for the red cross sewn onto its front and ripped it off; I did not want to bear the mark of a Templar in public spaces while my Brothers scoured the streets looking for me. But I also felt as though I no longer had any right to wear the colours of the Order of the Temple; I had defiled its good name, cast its reputation down low. Even though I scorned the notion, the order was a sacred and noble fraternity of good men. And I was not a good man; Raynaud’s words rang in my ears – I was outside the protection of the Order now, beyond its benign influence. And that meant I was nothing more than a murdering villein. But something else within me had changed. I was not sure whether if I even wanted to wear the mark of a Templar knight any longer, whether I really cared. The thought made me feel sick, but I knew it was true. Without my father’s hand to guide me, the order had suddenly lost all significance.

I set off, shuffling in the direction of the harbour. I had no plan, beyond walking up to the doors of the Templar refectory, whereupon I fully anticipated my arrest, followed swiftly thereafter by my execution. That was surely the correct – the only – course of action. I weaved my way through the busy harbour traffic. Merchants, slaves, horses, carts and men-at-arms thronged the quayside. There were plenty of waifs, beggars and drunkards that populated Acre’s underbelly and, for the time being, I had joined the ranks of those lost souls; no-one paid me a jot of attention. Only when I hobbled past a group of Hospitaller knights did I provoke a reaction; one of them turned to observe me as I walked past. He frowned for a time, an air of vague recognition on his face, and then turned his attention back to whatever business he was conducting. I pressed on through the throng and almost collided with the Vicopte Pancrazio Navarese, whose wife I had bedded not more than a day ago. His bulk manoeuvred clumsily through the crowd, flanked by the same masked figure and Venetian merchants that had attended our last meeting. A Hospitaller knight, known as De Ronay, and a Teuton called Von Thieberg, strode behind. I swiftly turned away, knowing I would be immediately identified by any one of that party if they saw my face. Head bowed I shuffled to one side, even as Von Thieberg’s mailed glove pushed me casually from their path. Amongst their chatter I caught snatches of names and was suddenly curious to hear the conversation. So I followed them at a distance, remaining hidden but eavesdropping as best I could.

The Vicopte Navarese was speaking over his shoulder to the rest of the party while mopping his damp brow. ‘Are the rumours true? Is Raynaud de Courney dead? Either way, the Templar fleet still blocks the harbour’ he brayed, shooing a gang of boys out of his path. ‘What have you heard De Ronay?’iv>

The Hospitaller knight raised an eyebrow. ‘As much as you, Vicopte. The Templars keep their affairs to themselves. But the Marshal is dead, I am sure of it. Look around you - every Templar brother in Acre is on the streets, searching for his killer.’

‘And what do the streets tell us, I wonder? What are the rumours of his murder – the perpetrator, the motive and the like?’

‘The usual – either the killing was provoked by a disagreement with the Hospitallers, or Teutons; the Assassins were behind it, or a Byzantine with a grudge. Some even say it was the boy you met yesterday – the one known as Alaric of Sarafand.’

Both the Vicopte and the masked figure seemed to express interest at this. Their eyes met briefly, then stared towards the knight De Ronay.

‘That little runt who insulted me? The devil take him! Obviously an impetuous knave, but why would he kill one of his own?’

De Ronay shrugged. ‘Because he had a quarrel with the Marshal? I heard his father had died and he was grieving; it may have been a crime of passion. Whatever the truth, the boy has a reputation as a troublemaker. He is the owner of some kind of fabled sword – and has ideas above his station.’

The tall figure wrapped all in orange silk tilted his head towards the Vicopte.

‘Who is the boy’s father?’ asked the sweating Venetian.

‘Brother Ranulph of York – a good Christian and a noble knight. Why so many questions Vicopte? If you want revenge for what the boy said about your mother, then you are too late. If the rumours are to be believed, he has already fled the city.’ A faint smile flickered around the Hospitaller’s thin mouth.

The masked figure suddenly expelled a growl, his pale eyes wide with rage. The Vicopte threw him a look pregnant with meaning, but the figure flapped his cape and turned away in disgust.

‘Gentle knights and nobles’ interjected the Teuton Von Thieberg. ‘If you please – we have more pressing concerns. The harbour. Whether the Templar Marshal Raynaud de Courney is alive or dead, his order’s fleet is still docked along the quay. And I say: let them stay. We do not need Venetian finery; we need food, and arms, and men.’

‘No no no!’ exploded the Vicopte. ‘By Our Lady, you so-called knights make me sick! Trade is the lifeblood of this city. The Venetians; yes, even the Pisans and the Genoese, have made this city great. I swear that you will bring Acre to its knees with your warmongering. If you do not let the merchants unload their cargo – ‘

‘Have you quite finished, Pancrazio?’ asked the Hospitaller De Ronay, cutting short the Venetian’s rant. ‘Is your memory so poor that you have forgotten how close we came to destruction when those drunken oafs from Pisa slaughtered every heathen in Acre? Do you not recall how the Templars’ spies discovered the Sultan’s wrath and warned the city? And how the military orders parlayed with him on the city’s behalf?’

‘Yes, and I remember the terms’ laugh Vicopte. ‘One gold piece per citizen! By God, your bartering is even worse than the Genoese!’

De Ronay glanced at the Teuton, his face wearing an exasperated expression. ‘Vicopte, the military orders are delivering as many men to the city as possible. The godless Sultan al-Ashraf approaches with an army bigger than any ever mustered in these lands. Make no mistake, he will attack Acre. Probably within the month. And when he does, it will mark the final battle between the Christians and the Muslim horde. I saw the size of his army at Tripoli. We counted over one hundred thousand foot soldiers and forty thousand cavalry. And do you know how many knights are billeted in Acre?’

Pancrazio shook his head.

De Ronay almost spat his reply. ‘Fifty knights Vicopte. That is all.’ He turned to the bearded Teutonic knight. ‘And how many brothers dine in your refectory, von Thierberg?’

‘No more than twenty’, he replied quietly.

De Ronay looked sternly towards the Venetian merchants. ‘The Templars have maybe eighty knights in Acre. One hundred and fifty brother knights are not enough to repel an army of one hundred thousand. Even with the inclusion of our sergeants, foot soldiers and hired hands, we do not stand a chance. Acre will fall – do you understand?’

The merchants eyed him with suspicion. ‘You exaggerate Sir Knight’ ventured one. ‘The heathen will not attack Acre while God continues to bestow his grace upon us.’

Von Thieberg the Teuton expelled a tired, world-weary sigh. ‘You are wrong, Pietro’ he said in concession. ‘De Ronay is right. The orders must now commandeer the harbour to ensure the defence of the city.’

‘This is ludicrous!’ squealed the Vicopte Navarese. ‘If trading ceases, the whole economy will collapse. Then we will not need help from an infidel army – Acre will fall by our own hand.’

Even now the Vicopte’s greed obscured all sense. Would he never learn? I continued hobbling along beside the grumbling party, but suddenly tripped on a cobble and stumbled into the path of the Vicopte. He gazed down over his corpulence to see my filthy features stare back up at him. His eyes widened in recognition and he silently mouthed an oath. His silent companion spied me also; his cold eyes glinted and a gloved hand swiftly reached for a curved blade at his hip. Before anyone could act I was on my feet and weaving a route away from them, back into the crowds.

CHAPTER 13

I heard voices call out behind me, but took no notice., and did not stop running until I reached the far end of the harbour. Gasping, I looked back and saw that no-one had followed; the Vicopte and his cronies had been absorbed back into the ebb and flow of quayside traffic. Turning up the hill towards our Commandry I spied four mounted Templar knights, trotting slowly down the dusty street toward the flagstones of the quayside. Toward me. They were passing the magnificent church of St Andrew where Augustinian monks busied themselves nearby. On the other side of the road sat vendors swatting flies from baskets of figs and dates. My immediate instinct was to not give myself up; instead I ducked from view and hid behind a cattle driver who prodded and cajoled his herd along the dusty track. I looked about me and moved out of the Templars’ line of sight, behind a cypress tree and then into the midst of a group of market traders. I made my way towards a small alley between two buildings, which would involve scaling a short flight of steps. Once on the raised platform, I would be momentarily visible before I gained the alley and slipped into darkness. I surveyed the area quickly. The Templars had turned into the quayside but had stopped at the entrance to the open concourse. Without thinking I ran up the steps and found myself immediately above them, and directly opposite. If one of them turned to his right now I would be spotted. I stared, almost daring them to look towards me, then I stepped back from the edge of the platform and pressed against the side of the building, manoeuvring silently into the narrow alleyway.

I was breathing heavily. A rat scuttled across my feet. I was confident I had not been seen. Tentatively, I stole a look from my hiding place and, as I did so, one of them turned to look in my direction. I withdrew back into the darkness. Damn. We had made eye contact. I was sure of it. I ran down the length of the alleyway, over old debris and rubble, and emerged at the far end. This was near the opposite side of the city, close to the walls. Although this area was completely shielded from the sun, there was no cover, save for scattered rubbish, a few bushes and patches of brown grass. I edged along the side of the building, but as I did so I heard the loud crunch of dirt and rocks moving underfoot – so loud and so near that it startled me. I panicked at the realisation that I had nowhere to go, so crouched into the darkest shadow of the building I could find and waited.

At first I saw a leg, then a sword, then arms and finally a head. I heard a voice. ‘Alaric. Alaric, are you there?’ Could it be? I dared not believe my ears. I recognised that voice. It was my good friend Michael de Losinga.

‘Michael! Is that you?’

‘Yes. Alaric, where are you?’

‘Are you alone? Is it safe?’

‘It is safe for now. I am alone’.

I stepped out to meet him. ‘Thank God’ I exclaimed. ‘Was it you on the horse who spotted me just now?’

‘Yes. I told the others I wanted to examine something.’ He looked behind him furtively. ‘They will arrive here presently if we are not careful. What on earth happened Alaric? Tell me quickly.’

‘My father is dead’ I sobbed. ‘And I was in a rage. Raynaud de Courney and a heathen – I met them late last night and killed them both. I didn’t know what I was doing. It was a mistake, a terrible mistake.’

Michael shook his head. ‘This is indeed the worst possible news. The bodies were recovered this morning. Every spare brother is out looking for you. You are the prime suspect Alaric. You know the penalty for murdering a brother?’

I nodded pathetically. ‘I was going to give myself up, but I am too much the coward. What should I do Michael?’ I don’t want to die at the hand of my own brothers.’

‘By our Lady, yu are a fool. But you wanted a chance to stick Raynaud and you got it. Now the order will see that you face justice.’ He at least seemed resigned to my fate.

A firm realisation crystallised in me then – I did not want to be caught, and I did not want to die. The words of the Hospitaller De Ronay returned to my ears; there was another option. I gripped Michael’s habit and drew him close, looking him in the eye. ‘Michael – you have to help me. I have to get out of Acre. I would rather take my chances with the heathen beyond the city walls than be trussed up like a dog in the Templar cells, only to be executed at the end of it.’ I pleaded with him; this was not the time to show pride of any sort. ‘Please Michael. Exile, not death. Cast me out of the city and I’ll take on the infidel alone. You know I won’t last for more than a few days in the wilderness – the desert is swarming with bandits and Mameluks. But at least give me a chance to die a noble death.’

Michael sighed deeply. He did not speak for some time. He stared at me, then at the floor, stroking his beard and looking worried. ‘I am not so sure. You stole Raynaud’s chance of a noble death when you murdered him. No Templar deserves that. But… he was a rat of a man and you are still my friend. There is no stronger bond amongst brothers.’ My eyes welled with tears as he spoke. ‘There is one chance’ he continued, frowning. ‘I will return to the commandery now and collect what items I can for you. You must meet me near the Gate of Maupas in Mont Musart – the Jewish Quarter, at Vespers. In the meantime, find a better hiding place and lie low.’ He pulled out a small flat knife. ‘And take this – remove your beard. You will need to look as much like someone else as possible.’

With that he left me. I moved slowly from one shadow to another, edging along the city wall until I found an isolated spot between two stone buttresses. I got to work on my beard, hacking off the golden stubble with short, violent strokes. Eventually, despite having cut myself a number of times, the beard was all but removed. I wiped my face with the cleanest part of my habit and began the clandestine journey towards my meeting point with Michael. I learned quickly that my best and safest strategy was to adopt the role of a beggar. I certainly looked the part, being covered in blood and filth. I rounded my shoulders, stared at the floor and shuffled silently across the city. No one paid me any attention, save when I was in the way. I earned a number of insults and a few blows, but they were a small price to pay compared to capture by the Templars.

It was simple enough to hide amongst the shadows near this most remote and isolated city gate until Michael appeared; he approached cautiously then stopped under the shadow of a large cedar. I was overjoyed to see that he had brought Hugo, my destrier, and Awad, my fine Arabian palfrey. Despite the smile on my face, Michael looked stern and harassed.

‘By our Lady, you could not begin to understand how difficult it was getting all this out of the compound’ he said, with some force. ‘It was only because the place was empty – most of the brothers are out looking for you in the south and east of the city, near where the bodies were found.’

‘Michael, you have excelled yourself’ I exclaimed. I looked at him. ‘You have given me another chance. You have saved my life – for a second time now.’

‘You can thank me later’ he replied, looking about him. ‘Your squirNicolas Ochrida, would not believe I needed the horses and armour for you. He thought you were dead. He insisted he come along to make sure I wasn’t selling the horses at the marketplace.’

‘Where is he?’ I asked.

‘Nicholas is over there,’ replied Michael, pointing in the direction of a small chapel set back from the road. I saw Nicolas sitting outside and I waved at him. He looked up and waved back tentatively.

‘Alaric’ snapped Michael. ‘We don’t have time for this. I had to persuade the stable boy that we were using your horses as bait, to lure you out into the open. The old city is still swarming with brothers. You must leave now – and do not return. Your life depends on it.’

I swung my body up onto Awad and grasped Michael fondly by the hand. ‘You are as a blood brother to me. I hope we meet again one day, in this life or the next.’

He nodded and smiled ruefully. ‘Alaric. There is one more thing I need to tell you.’

‘Go on.’

‘Your father’ he began hesitantly, ‘is not dead.’

I stared at him in disbelief. ‘Not dead? How do you know? How do you know this?’

‘I overheard the Grand Masters talking as they took the morning air in the cloisters. Most of the brothers were at mass. I was gathering together your equipment, heard them coming and hid. I heard them mention your name, and Raynaud de Courney. Then they spoke about how your father was alive, somewhere in the Kingdom of Jerusalem, and that he was now more of a threat than ever. He is alive and gathering knights to him, though to what end I cannot tell. This was all I heard.’

‘It is indeed strange news’ I whispered, eyes wide.

Michael looked pained. ‘I have been deliberating whether to tell you since I heard. It may not even be true. I pray you use this information wisely.’

‘I will’ I replied. ‘Do not doubt yourself. You did the right thing, and I am eternally grateful. Now I must go. Thank you again my friend. God keep you.’

I set off in the direction of the city gate, without looking back. The two lazy militia stationed there leapt out of their skins as I thundered past. They shouted a challenge, but too late – I was beyond the city walls, galloping through the olive groves and orchards towards the desert sands beyond.

CHAPTER 14

The hot wind on my face produced an exhilaration of sorts as I galloped into the Syrian wilderness. Hugo, my huge and faithful warhorse, was following close behind. I set Awad at a fast pace and did not look back for some time, so absorbed was I in my own thoughts. It was a relief to be away from the blood and the terror of the city, the horrible reality of my actions the previous night. I was now a pariah, ostracised from my friends and brothers, and I had no notion whatsoever of what I should do next, save to ride as far from Acre as possile. I had expected to feel lost and destitute, but was surprised at the sensation stirring in my gut: anticipation, resourcefulness, self-reliance. My horses were strong and well fed, I had food and water, and Outremer was mine to explore at will. The threat of bandits and Saracens did not concern me; I was confident I could avoid them where necessary. If I encountered too many I would hide by day and travel by night. There was food enough available, albeit sparsely distributed: olives, apricots and dates. It was possible to hunt on occasions: goats, gazelles and wild oryx grazed on the more fertile lowlands. Indeed, much of the country north and east of Acre was freshwater swamp, where all manner of wildfowl and game could be caught. I rode roughly east – I knew of a small oasis in that direction.

After an hour of hard riding I spied it ahead and approached at a canter. A few sun-baked hovels were situated nearby; a goat bleated and its bell rattled; a falcon sat atop a ramshackle out-building, but I saw no other signs of life. I dismounted and peered down the well. A heavy wooden bucket, attached to a length of old rope, was half submerged in dirty water. I dragged it to and fro then hauled it up. It was early afternoon and the sun slowly baked the landscape; its heat turned the horizon to insubstantial ripples. There was no wind. I could smell the heat in the air, along with a faint odour of cedar and frankincense. I looked about me, then quickly removed my clothes and upended the water over my head. I spluttered and spat and shook my hair; the water stained the sand beneath me like ink. I threw the bucket back down the well, scooped out more water and poured it over me again, this time vigorously washing the caked filth from my face and arms. Reaching for my saddlebag, I noticed that Michael had provided me with a new set of clothes. They were anonymous – black, but perfect under the circumstances. I pulled on the cuirass and tunic, arranged my belt and dagger, attached my sword to its baldric and slung it across my shoulder. I took this opportunity to conduct an inventory of the other equipment. Michael had packed armour – chainmail hauberk, greaves, chausses, coif and great helm into a large sack behind Hugo’s saddle. Behind these were my mat, tent and tent pegs. A buckle to one side secured my shield, and my lance was secured at the other with a series of looped leather straps. Awad carried my longbow, a quiver of arrows, a large black hooded cloak and my saddlebag. Within this was a pouch of coins, a skin of wine and another of water, but no food. After pulling on my boots and discarding my old clothes I watered the horses, watching them as they drank.

Hugo had been my destrier for years; he had carried me into battle on countless occasions and he was as scarred as I, if not more so. His haunches were latticed with cuts inflicted by sword and spear. One particularly deep wound had been received across the bridge of his nose and had almost killed him. Were it not for the skill and attention of my squire, Hugo would likely have died. I patted his neck and watched as he lapped at the water, ears swatting the flies around his head. Whereas Hugo was larger than a shire horse, Awad was a slight, brittle and refined chestnut stallion. One Abdullah Shileah Al-Jamaan, a Syrian noble who owned castles around Ramleh in the south, had bred him. Abdullah was renowned for his skills at equine husbandry; his horses were purchased and ridden by sheiks, sultans, Muslim warlords and Christian princes alike. Some years ago a band of brothers and I were scouting around the Templar stronghold of Recordane when we encountered Abdullah, along with a number of other nobles and members of his family, hunting lions – a popular pastime amongst the infidel. Without hesitation we drew our weapons and bore down on them, slaughtering as many as possible before they routedullah’s son, who looked no older than sixteen, was the first to flee. I had noticed him depart the battle and, more significantly, noted the steed upon which he fled – a marvellous, lithe, rippling beast that I determined was to become mine. I too peeled away from the heart of the melee and set Hugo at a gallop; his hooves thundered across the plain and we swiftly approached Abdullah’s son. As he looked back and saw that I was close by, his face became a mask of terror. I was breathing hard through my great helm, spurring Hugo on until I was almost alongside. The attack was brutal and immediate; I held my sword aloft and away from my body, stood high in my saddle, and sliced down and outwards. The boy’s head and shoulder rolled back, departing his torso and spinning away into the trail of dust left in our wake. The remainder of his body slowly crumpled and slipped from his saddle, to be pummelled underfoot by his own horse. I grabbed the reins of this fantastic specimen and pulled Awad to a standstill. Removing my helmet I admired my new chattel; its flanks were sweating heavily and it whinnied with nervous gusto, but I was pleased.

‘You are as fine a horse as I have seen in the whole of this kingdom,’ I said, holding the reins close and stroking his head. ‘And now you are mine.’

Thereafter, I took the horse back to Acre where it was to be stabled, and rode him for pleasure or during certain festivals. I named him Awad, which means ‘reward’.

****

I rode on and and, by late afternoon, spied a small village half-hidden amongst orchards and groves. I was some distance south of Juddin, on a road that would eventually lead to Lake Tiberius. Although I had no clear plan, I was sure I did not want to travel so far east, potentially into the arms of the approaching Mameluk army. Besides, I was ravenous, so decided the village was a good place to find food and a bed for the night. The shadows were long as I approached, and in those golden hours before sunset the low, ragged walls of the village glowed like burnished copper. They were in a state of disrepair: piles of rubble sat below gaping holes in the wall, while elsewhere wooden struts held back the bowing stonework. The few fields surrounding the village were untilled and, save for a small flock of sheep I saw no other life; as I rode through the unmanned gates I wondered if the place was deserted. Once inside though, it became apparent that the villagers remained – although for how long was not clear. A number were loading carts and animals with belongings as though intending a swift departure. The men and women of the village barely noticed me as I trotted past, too busy packing and fastening to look up. The few that did meet my gaze were marked with fear. Yet towards the end of the dusty track, at the far end of the village, a handful of locals had congregated, seemingly neither fearful nor harassed; they simply stood and observed. I approached them and was met by a short man of middle age, his features all pushed up against each other in the centre of a large round face.

‘God keep you Lord’ he said with a lopsided smile.

I nodded in reply and gestured behind me. ‘Those people, what are they doing?’

‘Packing up to leave, my Lord. They fear the giant army of Islam that comes to claim Acre. They fear it will soon be upon us, and so they flee lest we are attackl of us slaughtered.’

‘And yet you seem to be in no hurry to leave.’

‘That is true Lord. Some of us folk have seen it all before and we just carry on. If I left my home every time I heard rumours of war, I would spend my whole life shivering in the mountains.’

I looked beyond the low stone cottages and towards a simple church and, beyond that, a larger building surrounded by young fig trees.

‘What is that place?’ I asked, nodding towards it.

‘The manor my Lord.’

‘And who is your master?’

‘We have none. I am a franklin. Besides, our Lord and his men left us two years past to fight the infidel. He never returned.’

‘And the parson?’

‘Struck down with pox.’

I dismounted then, and handed the horses’ reins to the man. ‘Feed and water these beasts if you would. I have need of lodgings for the night.’

The franklin bowed. ‘You will be my family’s guest.’

The man’s name was Elias, and he had claimed the manor for his own. He was from an old Byzantine family, fallen on hard times after the sack of his city, and he had never returned east. We took a meal amongst the shade of his fig trees, attended by his wife Helena and their daughters. It was still warm in the afternoon sun, but the shade cooled us, and he and I talked easily for some time about various matters. It was a comfort to me to be amongst a family, enjoying simple pleasures. Perhaps I truly could find solace beyond the walls of the Templar Commandery, and one day come to terms with my sin of murder. Bees performed their industry amongst the flowers, butterflies tumbled like petals in the wind and, for a brief moment, all was well.

Elias asked me little about my own circumstances, which was right and proper as I was his better, even though I was happy to share his table as equals. He queried me briefly about my business and I told him I was an emissary for my Lord, taking a message from Acre to Nablus.

‘But Nablus is under Mameluk rule…’ he said, a note of suspicion in his voice.

‘And the message I take is one of peace’ I lied. We said no more about it, and I deflected any further attention from myself by questioning Elias on events within the village.

‘You said your parson was killed by the pox’ I said. ‘I saw fresh graves by the church. How many died?’

The franklin shrugged and sipped from a cup of wine. ‘The parson was the first to go. We lost twelve souls to that pox. It was an outbreak of camp fever I think, but I am no surgeon. There was little we could do and I pray that is the end of it. But there are still graves to dig and bodies to bury.’

‘Without the parson they died unshriven. I will pray for them’ I mutterd.

‘Our God, he takes many of us – but it does not sadden me. For surely it means he holds us dear, and wants us closer to Him amongst the Heavenly Host.’

I smiled wanly, but his talk reminded me of my own loss, and I fell silent.

A boy then appeared from amongst the stooping bows of the fig trees. He was quite the most beautiful child I had ever seen – a clear oval face, skin as pale and flawless as marble.

‘Falkon, my son’ barked his father sternly, ‘what are you doing?’

‘Eavesdropping Lord’ chirruped the boy, his eyes glinting mischievously like jewels.

Elias called the boy to him and they embraced.

‘He is a fine son and heir’ I commented.

‘Yes, he’s a little prince is he not? Although he is almost a man, I will one day send him to the Monastery of Great Lavra, for that is my dearest wish – that he should take the monastic oath and learn humilty on the Holy Mountain.’

‘Then, when I am wise and learned I will flee to Byzantium and find my fortune in that great city’ exclaimed the boy.

I took a draught of wine and smiled. ‘I have no doubt you will one day feast with emperors and patriarchs – men and women will love you, and will give you riches if you love them in return.’

The boy beamed at this, but Elias clearly disapproved. ‘Until that time, my lad, you will work for your father and earn your keep. Look at the sky – rain is coming.’ He gestured at a bank of cloud that muddied the blue. ‘Bring in the sheep for the night – be off with you.’

The boy left then, skipping away down the street. We sat and watched him go, and said nothing. Yet even as we sat, the clouds continued to swell overhead and, as the sky darkened, so did my thoughts. Perhaps the wine exerted its melancholy temper, but I began to brood on my father, and on Michael’s words. A slow, timid patter of rain quickly became a storm and we moved inside. Elias left to attend to some business or other and I silently stared out from the doorway, watching the parched sunken tracks turn to rivers.

The rain eased after a time, ceasing as quickly as it had started, and deep golden rays broke from behind the black clouds. The dull chime of cattle bells echoed from the bottom of the street and I saw a ragged line of sheep trudging up through the mud. Falkon was with them, soaked to the skin, staff in hand and slipping excitedly in an effort to reach the house.

‘Father! Father!’ he yelled.

Elias emerged, clad in a fur-trimmed gown, and watched his mud-splattered boy approach.

‘Father’ said the boy, gasping. ‘An army approaches. I watched it. It passed the village first but stopped. Then it turned and came back. When I saw it heading for me I ran in with the sheep and closed the gates.’

Elias’s face fell. ‘So. The heathen army arrives sooner than we thought’ he muttered. ‘Well done Falkon. You are sure the gates are closed and locked?’

The boy nodded.

Folk emerged from their homes as word spread. After the rain all was quiet, save the distant rumble of a noise like thunder. The sound grew louder, and those of us who knew of such things recognised the unmistakeable sound of an army at march. Silence descended suddenly, followed by the loud crack and splinter of timbers. Villagers cried in dismay and fled back to their cottages; Elias sent his own family into the manor house and found a sword. The gates now breached, we waited for the army.

CHAPTER 15

After what felt like an age, a column of cavalry appeared, heavily barded, armed with lances and dressed in fine leather and mail. At first I did not recognise them. Following behind was a strange sight – what looked like a shrine atop a carriage, tall and slender and glistening with gold and jewels, pulled by eight snow-white oxen. This was flanked by more cavalry, and behind it a large unit of infantrymen. The closer they grew the more my heart sank; these were not Mameluks; they were an army of the strange and unknown warriors that had ambushed Durand, Kaspar and me at the castle at Doc; the same jawless abominations as the one witnessed on the quayside at Acre, accompanying the Vicopte Navarese. I suddenly felt exposed, stood there at the top of the village, and I retreated back into the shadows of the fig trees. Elias, in contrast, strode forward, sword still in hand. The column halted some distance before the franklin. One horse and rider stepped out to meet him, the figure still dressed in rippling orange silk, but his armour more ornate and extensive than the others. This was clearly the warlord or general of the army. I felt eyes behind me and turned to see Helena, her daughters and Falkon huddled in the doorway. Other faces had emerged silently from their homes, gazing fearfully towards the head of the column. Elias did not give ground as the mounted warrior towered over him, the great black horse blowing and nickering, but even from the shadows I could see his sword-arm tremble. He bowed stiffly and his cracked voice broke the still, cool air.

‘My Lord, you do us great honour. How may we attend to your needs?’

The mounted figure said nothing, but unbuckled his helmet and removed it. A gloved hand pulled the silk away from his face to reveal the features within. I was surprised that his jaw was intact – maybe the privilege of high rank. But his face was one of the most evil I had seen at that time, although I would see others more evil in future; black hair was pulled back from a low, heavy brow; pale, dank skin stretched over sharp features like a corpse; thin, cruel lips hid decaying teeth and, most terrible of all, a pair of bright blue eyes, merciless and full of hatred, blazed from the midst of dark rings. His mouth opened and words came forth, as though spitting poison.

‘Feeble hearts, idle spirits. These things do not give comfort to the Lord of Petrov.’ He looked about in disgust, but no-one dared breathe. The man’s voice was deep, his tone brusque, and his accent was from the northern kingdoms – Denmark, Lithuania, Russia.

Elias made to reply but the mounted figure cast him a terrible look. ‘Speak not old man. Your feebl words will only add to your misery.’ He leaned forward in his saddle and sniffed. ‘There is one amongst you – I can smell him – who is a criminal. A murderer. A thief.’

‘We – we are all good Christians here…’ muttered Elias.

The Mounted knight sneered. ‘You are black caskets of despair’ he growled. ‘You are wretched swine, befouled with the taint of lies.’

He stepped down from his saddle into a puddle of muddy water, and stood before the franklin. He spoke again, this time slower, as though addressing an idiot. ‘There is one amongst you. A man. A Knight of the Temple. Take me to him.’

Panic gripped me in her icy claw. I knew he meant me; I think I had known as soon as this strange army had arrived that it was me they wanted, though I had no idea why. But I did know that if Elias handed me over to them I would be dead before the sun had finally set. In the failing light I retreated further into the shadows.

‘There – there is no Templar amongst us Lord’ mumbled Elias. ‘On the cross I swear it. But there is a man – a traveller – he arrived –‘

Even as Elias turned to point at where I had been standing, I had already begun running as silently and swiftly as I could, praying no-one had seen me.

The warlord’s growl echoed through the evening air, followed by the cruch of a hundred pairs of boots. ‘Find this man! He is lurking amongst these scum, Search their pigsties. Search everywhere. Find him and bring him before the Patriarch.’

I heard screams behind me as I ran through trees and high grass towards the village’s northern wall. The wall was in a ramshackle state and I spied a gap amongst the stones, but it would not provide me an escape route; as I peered through to the wilderness beyond I saw a ring of mounted warriors, armed with flaming torches, circling the exterior of the village. Cursing, I turned round and looked about. Soldiers were fanning out and advancing through the gloom. The sun had set and my only hope now was to find cover within the village, amongst its darkest corners. But this plan was rapidly thwarted as torches were lit and buildings ignited. Amid the villagers’ screams and pleas, fire cracked and roared, turning the insides of those mean cottages to infernos. Soon flames licked high into the inky sky and I could feel the heat from the fires even at a distance, crounching amongst the trees. Women and children ran to and fro and, in the confusion, I stumbled back down the hill towards the church, which was still shrouded in darkness. I must have passed within sword-reach of a number of soldiers, but somehow remained undiscovered. The church yard was scattered with fresh graves – victims of pox recently buried, but there was little in the way of cover there; before long the fires from the cottages would spread and I would once again be exposed. Standing amongst the graves I noticed a group of flaming brands bobbing in the darkness, growing closer. I panicked and suddenly spied a handful of still-empty graves, full of rainwater from the recent storm. Without further deliberation I slid into one and became fully submerged beneath the freezing, muddy water. I stayed there until my lungs burst then, as carefully as possible, broke the surface and sucked down a silent lungful of air.

The group I had seen approaching now stood close to my grave. One of the figu was Elias. Then I saw his son Falkon. They were surrounded by guards, and before them stood the army’s warlord; he was so close I could have reached out and touched his boot. None of them had noticed me.

‘Your lies displease the Great Lord of Petrov,’ growled the warlord. ‘He does not abide falsehood. The man we seek is amongst you, for the Patriarch has foreseen it.’

‘I swear on my life,’ replied Elias, ‘I do not know this man, and I did not know he was a criminal. He sat with me awhile and we shared a meal. When your army arrived, he disappeared.’

‘We will find him’ said the warlord flatly. ‘And for your sins, you and the village will be punished. But the Lord of Petrov is merciful. He has commanded me not to put you to the sword. This child has found favour with the Prince of Curses, and so he will be taken and made his servant.’

The warlord’s mailed hand reached out and grasped Falkon’s chin, turning the boy’s head this way and that in the flickering torchlight, as though examining a hound.

Elias’s voice faltered. ‘Please Lord, not my dear son. In the name of Christ, I beg you not to take my boy.’

The warlord’s mailed hand went from the boy’s chin to a dagger at his waist; it was a short, wide blade unlike anything I had seen before. ‘Do you love your life, Franklin?’

Elias stammered and spluttered. ‘I.. I.. Yes my Lord. Yes, I love my life, and the lives of all my family. They are the most precious things to me.’

‘But does your nailed God not say: “the man who loves his life will lose it, while the man who hates his life will keep it for eternity?”’

‘I… I…’ Elias did not know how to reply to this.

The warlord spat. ‘Your boy’s life will remain safe; he will learn things beyond the ken of man. You and your family and the others that live in this cesspit, you will all be spared; the Black Lord has decreed it. But also you will learn to hate your life; you all will be punished for the great sin of falsehood.’

Elias, his eyes wide with fear, flicked them towards the ground. For half a moment his eyes met mine. Then Elias’s scream, and the sound of bone snapping, filled my ears, along with the freezing water as I slid back below its surface.

CHAPTER 16

I remained in that waterlogged grave for hours, rising occasionally to grab lungfuls of air. And each time I did so the muffled sounds of carnage became brief shrieks and piercing howls. I was terrified, wondering what depravities the warlord and his monsterous legions were inflicting on the villagers. But I dare not move for fear I would be captured, and in turn suffer the same fate. The soldiers did not find me, and eventually they left, abandoning the village to the consuming fires. Frozen to the marrow, I slowly rose from the burial-pit and took in the scene before me. At first I saw nothing save for fires still raging across the village, although many of the buildings had been reduced to bned skeletons. Teeth chattering uncontrollably, I staggered towards the flames. Then I spied figures moving, and immediately sought cover as I assumed they were soldiers. But I wiped the mud-water from my eyes and saw they were villagers; the warlord had indeed let them live. I stepped closer and in the guttering darkness my blood froze in its veins. I saw then what the soldiers had done. The lower jaw of every man, woman and child had been removed. Those poor creatures staggered aimlessly to and fro, weeping and moaning like ghouls, blood and drool dripping from their wounds. The foul disfigurement I had first seen upon the warriors at Doc castle had been extended to these innocents, and I almost retched with pity. The warlord and his horde were truly the agents of Iblis. Tears instead of water filled my eyes as I staggered amongst them, unable to offer any help, and knowing their terrible fate was because of me; if I had avoided their village, or offered myself to the warlord, then none of this would have happened. Weeping and stumbling in the mud, I bumped into something and turned. It was Elias, who had suffered the same punishment as everyone else. His eyes, full of horrible accusation, widened, and he grabbed my throat, moaning and gurgling and spraying me with his bloody drool. I let him attack me. More saw the commotion and gathered to exact their mute revenge: Elias’s wife Helena, their daughters, and other villagers. Their blows rained down on me and I did nothing to defend myself; hands reached for my mouth and throat, no doubt attempting to inflict their own mutilation upon me. Scores of them attacked with a Dervish-like fury and I prepared myself for death, prepared myself to be ripped limb from limb.

Then an arrow thudden into Elias’s back. His grip loosened and he collapsed into the mud. Another arrow followed, then another. The moaning horde panicked and fled, leaving me swollen and bloodied.

A man walked towards me, bow in hand. Was he the warlord’s archer, made to stay behind and execute me if I revealed myself? The figure did not stop until he was before me. He was thin and dressed in black.

‘Greetings Christian’ he said.

‘Who are you?’ I replied, spitting blood.

‘I am Khaled Aziz Al-Khathran.’

‘Thank you for saving me. But you should have let these wretches have their way with me. I am responsible for all this.’

‘I know’ he replied. ‘I saw what happened.’ He turned and loosened an arrow into another villager, then another. I grabbed his arm. ‘What are you doing? These people need help. You cannot massacre them all.’

‘They are beyond help now Christian. Death will be a release for them.’ He nodded at my scabbarded sword. ‘If you want to help them, give them a swift death and pray for their souls.’

Although the thought filled me with nausea, the man called Khaled was right – those doomed souls were better off dead. So we scoured the village and left not one alive. It was a grim night’s work. The confusion, pain and hate in the eyes of those wretched creatures haunted me thereafter. We built a pyre and I sobbed, offering silent prayers to the saints and Our Lady, begging them to petition God for a merciful judgement. Then I prayed for revenge, and through bitter tears I vowed a terrible retribution against the perpetrators of this crime; against the warlord and his minions, and the so-called Lord of Petrov.

The man called Khaled slaughtered a lamb and slung the corpse onto his horse. I found my own mounts and we left the village together. I did not look back. The place was cursed and best consumed by the purging fires.

I did not speak to my companion. We travelled silently through the night and I allowed him find us a place to camp. He led me along a narrow but shallow track that wound up a rocky hillside. The track levelled out into a flat plateau and, beside a rocky outcrop sheltered by boulders, we dismounted. I hung my wet clothes to dry and wrapped myself in a large hooded cape.

Khaled lit a fire and prepared the lamb. We both sat and watched the meat as it slowly cooked, dripping hissing fat into the flames. The canopy of stars – God’s great and celestial kingdom – wheeled above us.

Finally I spoke. ‘Who were they? The Godless scum who mutiliated the villagers? I have seen their kind before.’ I did not expect an answer from Khaled, but he looked up and held me with a level gaze.

‘They were Petrovingians. A race of sorcerer-knights from lands far to the north.’

‘How do you know this?’

The man’s angular face stretched into a thin smile. ‘I know many things, more than most, but not as much as some. Knowledge is not to be feared, as you Christians believe. I am not a trickster or a wizard. I am simply well travelled and widely read. But in answer to your question, I was tracking the Petrovingians, and I have been doing so since their army arrived in Edessa from Armenia in the north.’

It dawned on me that I knew nothing about this man, neither who he was nor where he had come from.

‘Why were you tracking them?’

‘You may well ask Christian. I can answer your questions in time, but tonight I invite you to dine with me, as my guest.’

He gestured towards the roasting lamb. I was not hungry, but I nodded and took a wineskin from my pack. After swallowing a deep draught, I handed it to my companion. He refused it.

‘My religion prohibits me from addling my mind with such intoxicants,’ he commented.

‘You are Muslim?’

‘I am.’

To know a man’s faith is to know his morality, his beliefs, his loyalties, and his trustworthiness. In short, it is all that is required in order to sum him up and determine whether he should live or die. It is usually the first question I would ask a stranger. But on this occasion I was exhausted, and I cared not.

I watched him as he sat staring into the fire. He was thin, almost skinny, but wiry also like knotted vines - and broad too. He was wearing black, from head to foot. Around his torso and waist were wrapped all manner of leather buckles, belts, straps and pouches. His shirt neck and sleeves were open; his black pantaloons were voluminous. On his feet he wore soft leather boots. His face was wide and flat; his cheekbones were high and his cheeks were sunken. From his brow descended a long, straight nose and below that was a wide mouth and small, pointed chin, circumvented by a short beard, no more than stubble. His hair was jet-black, gathered and tied like a horse’s tail with a piece of leather. But most entrancing of all were his eyes, which were bright and wild, but encircled by black rings, as though they had been awake for years, rarely resting in the sanctuary of sleep.

‘I have not shared a meal with many your kind’ I said presently, feeling the wine loosen my tongue. ‘Were I a priest I should try to convert you. But I am a knight, so I should kill you. But something about you makes me hold my sword in its scabbard.’

‘Perhaps the fact that I saved your life’ he observed quietly.

His words made me bristle. I did not like being in debt to any man, least of all a Muslim. But he was right – he had indeed saved my life. Yet I was still not sure if I gave thanks for the fact. I had deserved to die. Besides, I was now an outcast from the Templars and an outlaw; and my father too was perhaps dead.

I suddenly felt wretched. ‘No. It is because my heart tells me you are a better man than I. I am a man sunk low, weighed down with sin. Can you see that?’ I didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Tell me about you’ I said. ‘Are you a warrior, a noble, a merchant, a thief?’

He smiled. ‘I am all and none of those things. I am a Nizari. Or hashishin. In your tongue, Assassin.’

CHAPTER 17

I drew my sword immediately. ‘Assassin?’ I exclaimed. ‘So, you lured me here only to poison me with your meat, or put a knife in my back while I slept?’

‘No’ he replied softly, beckoning me to sit back down. ‘That is not our way. To begin with, if I had wanted to kill you I would not have told you I was an Assassin. Secondly, if I’d wanted to kill you, you would already know me.’ Looking me in the eye, his voice slowed and quietened. ‘Thirdly, if I’d wanted to kill you, you would already be dead. Besides, the Mongol horde wiped out what remained of our sect years ago.’ He looked back into the fire. ‘The few of us that continue to uphold our tenets do so out of personal choice. I admit I have my own private vendettas, but my will is bound to the will of the Mahdi – my leader and master.’

‘I thought the Assassins were inspired to heights of loyalty through the judicious use of wine and hashish,’ I said. ‘And yet you refuse mine,’ I added, holding my wine skin aloft.

‘Those tales are nothing more than myth,’ replied Khaled,’ peddled by your Frankish scribes. Although,’ he added, ‘I have been known to partake of hashish during certain Sufi rituals. But my intention then was to achieve a state of transcendence in order to glorify Allah. I do not consume intoxicants simply to achieve oblivion. What is the benefit of that?’

‘What is the benefit of glorifying Allah’ I replied, ‘at the expense of earthly pleasure?’

Khaled sliced a hunk of meat from theglistening lamb carcass and handed it to me. ‘Life is a test of the eternal life to come. This life assaults us with trials, hardship and temptation, but we the faithful strive to remain pure of heart, stay mindful of the will of Allah, and keep our iman – our faith – steadfast. Come the Day of Judgement, the righteous believers who have passed the test of their worldly lives will enjoy pleasures beyond all knowing in Paradise.’

‘I would fail that test’ I said.

Khaled shrugged. ‘Then your destiny would follow the same path as all unrepentant sinners – an eternity in Jahannam.’

I pointed at the floor. ‘You mean the other place?’

‘Hell’ he said flatly.

‘Yes.’ I considered his comments. My mind was fugged with wine and I grew insolent. ‘That is all very well infidel, but unfortunately there is no salvation save through Jesus Christ our Lord. It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of Heaven. And for a Muslim, well – it would be easier for a dromedary to be made Pope than for a Muslim to enter our Paradise.’ I smirked at my own joke.

Khaled observed me wryly as he chewed on a piece of meat. He said nothing for some time. How strange, I thought, to sit, eat and joke with the heathen, when his kind had stolen the lives of so many good Christians, so many of my friends and kinsmen. The fire between us, I watched the flames dance across his calm, aquiline features. Here was a Muslim. Here was otherness. How strange it was to be in the presence of a man so alike and yet so different. We shared the same bodily form, shared the same country, slept under the same heaven; no doubt, he bled the same colour as me. Yet his hair was black, mine yellow; his eyes were brown, mine blue; he was a Muslim, I a Christian; he was Satan’s apprentice, I was blessed by God. Yet he was the worst kind of heathen, because there was a nobility and grace about him that inspired a grudging admiration; it made me marvel how such a fine specimen of humankind could be so thoroughly deceived by such a despicable heresy as Islam. ‘You do not look like any heathen I have ever seen’ I ventured. ‘Are you Egyptian, or Bedouin? You do not look like a Turk; maybe you are a Moor.’

‘I have a tale to tell Christian,’ he replied. “And one day I may tell it to you.’

I said nothing more, and began to brood. ‘My father is dead,’ I muttered. As tears welled in my eyes, images of him sprung fully formed into my mind. It pained me greatly to think I may never see him again.

The heathen glanced at me. ‘We have all lost comrades’, he said without much compassion.

I continued regardless. ‘I am not a good man. And he was everything I am not. Yet he never asked anything of me. If I could charge a line of heathen cavalrymen, receive a lance through the shoulder and continue to fight on til sunset, as he once had, he would’ve died fulfilled. But we never fought together on the same field. It was his dearest wish was that one day we could.’

The heathen said nothing, but looked at me strangely.

‘His first word of advice to me was thinever stop practising the longbow. I remember the look of pride when he gave me my first bow. I was twelve. He spent the whole day instructing me, eating a pomegranate and stroking his beard with mirth as I tried to load an arrow; tried draw the huge bow taut. At that time, it stood taller than I did.

“You may be a knight” he said, “and this may be a peasant’s weapon, but it is also the weapon of an Englishman. The longbow can pierce shield and mail at one hundred yards. The best archers are so swift they could fell an advancing army single-handed. Practice every day.” He made me promise I would, and I did. But then years ago I stopped. And now I doubt I could hit a church door.’

The heathen had taken a piece of stone, jade I guessed, from his saddlebag and was now absorbed in its carving.

‘I too have lost my father’ he said without looking up.

I heaved a sigh and said no more, choosing instead to watch the heathen work. He used a tiny knife to flake off thin coils, which lay about him where he sat, cross-legged, his face frowning in concentration. But there was no look of pleasure in his eye, no glow of satisfaction that accompanies a man engaged in such simple diversions. Instead I saw a tightness in his features, stress across his brow; his eyes sparkled with a frantic intensity; his hands worked the stone so hastily that I had only previously seen its like in the markets of Acre, where harassed craftsmen made their wares to order.

He stopped and looked at me. ‘I have been wondering why the Petrovingian army would pursue you. Perhaps tomorrow you will tell me who you are?’

‘I have been wondering the same thing’ I replied. ‘But in truth, I am no-one of import. A criminal and a murderer – that is all.’

‘Your father – he was a Templar?’

I was surprised at his question. I had not mentioned the fact. ‘Yes. Yes, he was. How do you know this?’

‘A deduction. I observed the Petrovingian army ambush a contingent of Templar knights near here two days ago.’

I caught my breath. Could this be the same Templar party my father was travelling with? The same party that returned, battered, to Acre, accompanied by the black-clad Muslim and the Commander of Jerusalem? It dawned on me that if the location of the ambush were known, I could check the bodies for my father and determine whether he was truly alive or dead.

‘So you know where the Templars were attacked? You can take me there?’

‘Yes. If you wish to see a reeking battlefield strewn with Christian corpses.’

‘I do. My father may be one of them. And you saw the battle? You saw some Templars die and others flee?’

Khaled shrugged. ‘I observed it from a great distance. But I saw enough to know that the Templars were defeated.’

I considered this new information for a while, but was fast becoming numbed with exhaustion after the trials of the day. Dawn had already begun to shin the east and I deperately needed to sleep. Knowing that this heathen Khaled was an Assassin encouraged me to remain vigilant however; I unsheathed my dagger and held it close. Khaled also prepared for repose. He put the carving to one side, sliced some more meat from a bone, wiped his hands, and shifted on his rug. His face looked weary and drawn, yet he sat proud and upright. He took his scabbarded sword and placed it before him. It was then that I noticed the workmanship of his weapon. The hilt was of ebony, inlaid with ivory and mother of pearl; it looked exquisite. Khaled saw my interest and unsheathed the blade in one swift movement. ‘It is known as a katana in the Japanese tongue – the weapon of a samurai – a knight much the same as yourself.’ The blade was very thin and gently curved. Despite its beauty, I doubted it would last long against a crusader weapon, and said so.

‘You are right’ Khaled replied. ‘They are fragile weapons, but also deadly. If used improperly they will shatter, but in the hands of a master – I have seen eight of the enemy sliced asunder in moments. And I have studied the Japanese art of swordplay in much depth. For them, warfare is a dance; a dance of death.’ He resheathed the sword purposefully.

I nodded, but kept my own weapon hidden. I did not want to draw the infidel’s attention to its strange, formal beauty.

The ground was uncomfortable, but I pulled my bedding close and arranged it as best I could. I lay facing the Muslim and, before succumbing to sleep’s balm, mumbled a warning to him: ‘do not attempt to steal my life from the shelter of sleep. I may appear dead to the world, but I have posted a watch for the night’, and waved my dagger at him.

But the infidel called Khaled simply stared into the fire. He seemed not to hear.

****

I awoke with a start. I had not been asleep for long, as the sky was still a deep dark blue. Looking over at Khaled I saw that he remained near the fire, wide awake, his eyes like orbs of green fire flickering within a dark hearth. Then, as I watched, his behaviour became like that of a madman. He whispered strange, unknown phrases in a broken, desperate voice. His sword was drawn; his eyes were everywhere, gazing frantically left and right. He would cast a look behind him and spin round, then snap his attention elsewhere. This frantic twisting and searching continued ceaselessly as I lay quite still, observing in shocked fascination. Most disturbing of all was the unmistakeable glint of terror that shone from Khaled’s eyes. His whole body was wound taut by fear; even through the gloom I could tell that his features bore a wild, horrified aspect. I wondered if he had seen something out in the desert: a company of Templars or a Petrovingian raiding party looking for their slaughtered comrades; maybe he had heard the night-time call of a prowling lion. Yet the Muslim seemed somehow rapt in his own waking nightmare. I watched the unsettling apparition for some further time until my eyes gave way and I drifted back into slumber, leaving the heathen to his lonely vigil.

CHAPTER 18

On waking again I opened my eyes and winced at the morning sun, now climbing high into the blue sky. My groggy senses registered Khaled nearby and I wondered if he had managed to sleep at all. Raising my head I saw that he was crouching down near my drying clothes, with his back slightly towards me, studying some object intently. The sun formed a corona of light around his dark silhouette. I moved as slowly and noiselessly as possible, reaching for my knife while observing the heathen at all times. My sword lay before him. He partially unsheathed the blade, drawing a finger along its burnished steel, moving the sword in his hands and judging its weight. Finally he placed it back in the scabbard, rested it on the floor and retreated silently to his own bundle of equipment. As he did this I lay my head back onto the saddlebag I was using as a pillow and feigned sleep for a short time. I decided then, as I should have already suspected all along, that the heathen could not be trusted. It is true that my sword generally rouses the interest of most knights, despite my attempts to disguise it as a more mundane weapon. Perhaps, as was often the case with others, he was curious of its form, or its exquisite craftsmanship. Perhaps he was merely a petty thief and coveted the blade as a thing of value; after what I saw last night, perhaps Khaled was possessed by demons and, through him, they sought to use the weapon as a relic during some blasphemous ritual. My mind was made up: he would lead me to the battlefield and the Templar corpses, whereupon I would run him through and leave his body to rot amongst the nobler Christian company.

I grunted and noisily shifted my body upright. The Muslim, now tending to his horse, turned towards me and smiled thinly. He looked terrible – drained and haggard. ‘You Christians sleep late. Or maybe it was the wine you drank last night that prolonged your rest. You were certainly noisier in sleep than out of it.’

I stood up, rocking unsteadily on my heels. ‘But despite your snoring’ he continued, ‘I awoke as dawn broke and was much refreshed. It is good to sleep under the stars, amongst the charity of Allah.’

I smiled at the heathen’s feigned jollity, while tearing a chunk of cold meat from the carcass of our roasted animal. I was in no mood for pleasantries. ‘And have you been a good Muslim and prayed to your God?’ I asked.

‘Of course’ he replied. ‘Good Muslims - and good Christians – all give praise to God when they rise, and before they rest.’

‘In my experience’ I retorted, ‘Muslims are lazy unless told what to do and when to do it. Yet there are no muezzins out here in the desert to drag you from the bed to the mosque. How do you manage it?’

The infidel did not answer, but was obviously angered. I quickly packed my gear, and watched Khaled disperse the remnants of our fire. ‘Why do you do this?’ I asked as he kicked ash into the breeze.

‘Because if the Petrovingians are hunting, they may do so again.’ He continued. ‘Believe me, if they choose to come after you, you would be wise to cover your tracks as best as possible. Only the lazy would neglect to do this.’

I ignored his retort. ‘Come, ‘I said. ‘Lead me to the battlefield, so that I may pray for those good Christians whose lives have been taken.’

We rode in snce, down the shallow decline of the hill track and out into open desert. Who was he, this supposed Assassin with a sword from the east? I had seen enough to determine that I would not trust him with the steam from my piss. No Christian may ever trust a Muslim completely. One may entertain them, trade with them, bed their women, eat their meat, wear their fashions, enter their temples, and even fight alongside them. But one could never trust them in the same manner as a Christian brother. The Muslim is the anti-Christian, the Muslim is other. This is why I treated them all with caution and fear. Perhaps, even now, there was no battlefield; there were no slaughtered Templars. Or if there were, maybe he and his accursed brethren had killed them, including my father. Or perhaps his plan was to lure me to a place of seclusion and run me through. Maybe the Muslim was in league with these Petrovingians and, between them, their fell sciences would ensure my downfall.

We rode for a short while. The killing field made its presence known to us well before it was visible to our eyes. The gentle desert winds bore the sweet odour of death to our noses first, and then we spied the vultures circling in the clear skies ahead of us, their croaks like the death rattles of dying men. I began to sweat. I was approaching the old battlefield like a man on trial, awaiting his sentence. My fate was about to be determined and the decision was out of my hands. My father was either lay ahead, his body cold and mangled, or he was elsewhere and possibly still alive. But at this moment there was only the potential for hope. Khaled turned to look at me. I nodded ahead, implying that we should keep moving.

A day-old battlefield is a strange place; it is a little maelstrom of opposites and contradictions. It is real and yet unreal, saturated in death and yet not far from life. Death’s presence is palpable, though she lingers only until the last of the wounded gurgles his last breath. But the veil to other worlds is only just closed and the silence, the strange heavy silence that hangs in the air, somehow intimates the nearness of those new souls so recently departed from their earthly caskets. And yet, on the other hand, there is absolutely nothing numinous in an old battlefield. It is simply a repository for old flesh, old blood. Once the martyred souls have fled, that which is left behind is no different to that which is found on a butcher’s slab. A dead Christian is the same as a dead pig, a dead dog, a dead Muslim.

We were amongst those corpses now. Even in the morning sun, the stench was overwhelming, intoxicating. I dropped from my horse and drew my sword. There were perhaps twelve corpses here, most of them Templars, each one attended by a thousand flies and at least one massive, hideous vulture. A few prone horses added mass to the scene, an empty cart stood unaccompanied and forlorn. I approached the nearest body and gave a feasting vulture a hefty kick. In return it came at me with its beak until I sliced its head off with a low swing; the headless carrion flapped and writhed and dragged itself in circles in the dust. This first body was a Templar, lying face-down in a position only achievable by the dead. I turned the heavy, mailed body over with my foot. The Templar’s white tunic was entirely stained with gore. The face was missing half its features, but I could see the thick black hair. This was not my father. I moved onto the next body, dressed like a Templar but wearing a pale blue tunic and an insignignia unknown to me; on his breast was a type of embroidered cross fitchy, intersected with a pair of ‘s’ shapes. The body had been crushed and squeezed, by trampling horses no doubt. His helmet, still on his head, had been flattened, and when I had finally managed to remove it, all that was leftwithin was an unrecognisable stew of bone and blood. I removed his gauntlets to examine the hands beneath; these were older, but were thin and gnarled and the skin was olive-coloured. Again, this was not my father. Already I was tired, and I did not relish the challenge of searching each of these corpses. But it is far easier to confront a cadaver than the body of a dying man. The eyes of a man in his death throes are terrible – all his pain is reflected in them, along with the awful recognition, the presentment of his own death. But the dead man does not beg for mercy, or wail for a priest to shrive him before the Angel of Death, with her bony talons, claws him into the land of shade. The dead do not speak at all. The dead do nothing. So I moved from one corpse to the next with the sombre efficiency of Death herself. The more bodies I examined however, the more extreme my mood became. With only two corpses remaining, I was sweating heavily and my lips were dry. My fate was about to be sealed. The penultimate body belonged to Morant d’Etampes, a fine brother I knew from previous campaigns. My heart swelled to see him after so long, his lifeless eyes staring past me into the sun. ‘Farewell my brother’ I whispered. ‘You have bloodied your spear and earned a martyr’s seat in Heaven.’ A tear dropped from my eye. I stood and slowly made my way to the final body. Whoever he was, his frame was large. He lay on his back, knees bent, back slightly arched, arms spread like a cruciform. I felt sick at heart. Was this my father? The corpse still wore a helmet. I looked for an identifying mark on it, or from a sword, or waistbelt, or dagger, or scabbard. There was none. The Templar had been run through with a spear – the mail hauberk and surcoat were torn and mangled at the chest. With heart pounding I ripped off the brother’s helmet and stared frenziedly at the face beneath. It was old, grey, scarred and bearded, but it was not my father. I gasped and buried my head in the dust. My face was wet from tears - of relief, joy, grief. Ranulph of York, my father, was – God willing – still alive, just as Michael de Losinga had claimed.

CHAPTER 19

But there were also many good Templars on this field of blood whose lives had been lost; all were friends, brothers and kinsmen to me. Huwes of Koblenz, Luis de Champeaux, Arnaud de Langres, Gorhent of Eichstatt; all slain, all gone. I lay in the dust for some time, then finally stood up and surveyed the scene. At the other end of the field knelt the Muslim Khaled. I walked over to him but suddenly slowed when I heard his sobs and saw that he was cradling a body in his arms. The corpse was dressed as he was, in garments of black. The corpse reminded me of the heathen I had run through during my fateful meeting with Raynaud just two nights ago. ‘He is one of your people?’ I asked.

The heathen turned his red eyes towards me and nodded. ‘Yes’ he replied weakly. ‘He is Fakhr ibn al-Hajj and a member of my sect. He was like a brother to me.’ He stood up and wiped his face. ‘I must bury him now – alone – before Munkar and Nakir visit him. They will perform the fitnat al-Qabr on his soul. Do not watch me. Let me grieve in private.’

My heart stretched out briefly to the Muslim then. We were both killers, separated by faith but united in our loss.

I was sitting by our horses, deep in thought, when Khaled finally approached. He looked tired and drawn, although it was still morning.

‘All he bodies are Christian, save three’ I said. ‘One is your colleague; the other two are those Petrovingian devils. It appears that your story is true.’

But I had become quickly suspicious of the ongoing presence of these black-clad Muslims: first, the one I had killed in Acre; second, Khaled himself; and third, the body found lying amongst the battlefield’s dead. What role did they play in these events? And what information was Khaled keeping from me?

I looked back towards the battlefield. ‘I do not understand what one of your sect was doing here. There are many questions that require answers, Muslim. Which side did he fight for? And why did you not know your clansman was involved in this?’

Khaled shook his bowed head. If he noticed the threat in my voice, he did not show it. ‘I do not know’ he muttered. ‘My mind is all confusion. Our sect is small and we work alone for much of the time. Whoever employs our talents, they do so through our Mahdi – our master; he agrees a price with our patrons. Thereafter, only our master understands what is needed, and he directs us. Our orders are received from him individually. And my orders were to shadow the Petrovingian force as it marched from Armenia in the north and through Syria. While the mass of that army took the road towards Jerusalem, a band of Petrovingians left the main body and rode west. I decided it would be easy to pick up the trail of the larger force again, so chose to follow the smaller band. I shadowed them for a day until they intercepted this party of Templars heading south. I held back and observed the battle from some distance – thus I could not know that my clansman was a combatant. But the Templars’ fate was swift and bloody. They were heavily outnumbered and quickly routed. The few that survived fled towards Acre. Then I resumed tracking the main Petrovingian army, which led me to the village, and finally to you.’

‘There was another of your sect,’I said, choosing my words carefully. A man dressed in black and wearing a kaffiyeh. I saw him arrive in Acre with the remmants of these Templars. He was an older man, with a grey beard. What do you think he was doing amongst that party?’

Khaled looked troubled. ‘That must have been my Mahdi, the Shaikh Tarus bi-Ahkam-Allah. But it is indeed strange that he should leave our eyrie; only a matter of the utmost seriousness would cause him to travel beyond our borders.’

He is also dead, I thought to myself, though I took care not to reveal this fact. Instead, I drew my weapon. ‘I do not trust you, Muslim. By God, you could be in league with those Petrovingian devils. You are keeping something from me. Tell me what you know!’

‘You demand many answers’ exclaimed the infidel, unsheathing his own blade, ‘yet you are the greatest enigma of all. You ride alone in the wilderness, as well equipped as any knight, yet you are dressed all in black, with no crest upon any of your clothing. You weep for the Templar dead, yet unlike a Templar your beard is trimmed back to the skin. The Petrovingian army hunts you, and would burn an entire village to capture you. And then there is your sword…’

‘My sword, yes’ I said, smiling grimly. ‘An object of fascination for many, and especially for you. I saw you this morning, coveting it while you thought I slept.’ I moved forwards and raised the blade until it hovered near the heathen’s belly. ‘What is it about this weaon that interests you so? Eh? What can your heathen wisdom tell me of its origins?’

The infidel called Khaled stood perfectly still, sword raised, eyes glowering at me from under a stern brow.

His silence told me everything I needed to know. Anger swelled in me. ‘You dog. Now I see the truth of it. You mean to run me through and take my weapon. I should have stuck you this morning when I had the chance.’

I came at him with a grunt, slicing down at his flanks. He parried every blow with an uncanny calm. I lashed out wildly, swinging the blade with little control but much fury. In response he stepped inside my guard, grabbed my sword arm and twisted. Pain blossomed and I instinctively dropped my weapon. Khaled pushed my arm further and I rolled forward with the pain, collapsing into the dust. Covered in sweat and humiliation, I looked up to see the heathen stood over me, my sword in his grasp, the twin points wavering near my chest.

‘Go on then’ I spat.

Khaled looked me in the eye and smiled. ‘I am not your enemy. Everything I have told you is true. Now it is your turn. Who are you Christian? And what are you running from?’

He returned my weapon. Now I was in his debt a second time. I stood up and wiped the dirt from me, considering my answer. What was I running from? I did not tell him. I did not mention the murder of Raynaud, nor the black-clad heathen. But against my better judgement I told him I was a Templar, and that my father should have been a member of the party returning to Acre; how, when the remnants of that company arrived at the gates of Acre and my father was not amongst them, the Commander said he had been killed in an attack by Turks. I told him that the Templar brother Michael de Losinga had overheard the Grand Masters talking and that, in fact, my father was still alive. To end my tale, I simply told Khaled that I fled the Templar commandery at Acre and set out, under an assumed identity, to find out once and for all whether my father was dead.

‘Hence my interest in these dead knights’ I said. ‘If my father was part of that company, and if he died in the battle, his body would be amongst those corpses. But it is not.’

Khaled licked his thin lips. ‘This is intriguing. The Templars have a desire to keep the truth of your father from you, although the reason for this is unknown. The Petrovingians regard you as important. My Mahdi appears to have deployed the resources of our sect in support of the Templars – this explains why he was riding with them.’

‘But what connects these things?’ I asked. ‘The Templars, these sorcerer-kings from the north, your sect, and my father and me?’

Khaled expelled a deep sigh. ‘I do not know. But I believe they are all complicit in a larger set of goals – one that is not apparent yet to me or to you.’

I disliked problems, mysteries, anything requiring investigation. Already, the pursuit of one simple truth - my father’s life or death - was beset with complexity and doubt. My head told me to end my dealings with the heathen here, but my heart told me to keep him close, as his usefulness was potentially great. I stroked my cropped hair and looked across the sombre landscape. ‘I am vexed by this. It is perhaps a strange fate that brings us both here now. I have no answers. But I do know that I intend to return to Acre. Any answers will lie within the Templar commandery there.’

‘Then I will come with you’ replied the Muslim.

‘You will not. You are not welcome.’

‘You must allow me,’ he insisted calmly.

‘Why?’ I asked. ‘You said yourself that your orders were to pursue the Petrovingian army south.’

‘The Petrovingians will go to wherever they are destined. There is nothing I can do to stop that, if indeed stopping them is our patron’s intent. But I do believe that bonds of destiny link us - they may be no thicker than a spider’s thread, but they are bonds nevertheless. Let me accompany you to Acre, help you where I can, and together we can unravel these separate strands.’

‘How can I trust you?’ I asked him dubiously. ‘You are an Assassin and Muslim. And I know you covet my sword.’

‘I do not covet that weapon’ he retorted, ‘though I do not deny it holds my fascination. Yet it is a gift and a tool, and it is yours for a reason, according to the divine will of Allah. In the whole unseen universe, only Allah knows the reasons why. For me to come between you and this sword would be haram. I can be trusted Christian. You have my word as a Nizari.’

I looked about me, looking for an answer amongst the trees and bushes. ‘Very well’ I sighed. ‘Come then, we leave immediately.’

CHAPTER 20

The return journey to Acre took the remainder of the sunlit hours. Khaled and I spoke very little, absorbed as we were in our respective meditations. Once I asked him to tell me more about the Petrovingians, for they were a mystery to me – never had I seen men dressed in such strange attire. Khaled knew very little, explaining that they were a secretive people who occupied an area of land known as Volost Vuikka, far to the north of the Great Principality of Moscow. Their capital, Petrovingia, is not shown on any map and is said to reside on an island in the midst of a lake the size of a sea. Legend tells that when the Mongol Khans passed through they circumvented the whole area, terrorising the rest of the region but never once entering Petrovingian territory or exacting tribute from its rulers. The myth-makers attribute this to the Petrovingian Patriarch – an unseen and unknown figure devoted to the discovery of ancient fell practices; it is his hand which protects their lands and wards off foes. When the Teutonic Knights attacked the Principality of Novgorod in the south, it is said that the Patriarch used his powers to help Alexander Nevsky, the prince of Novogrod, to defeat them. The influence of this warlock extends to a ruling class of sorcerer-knights - Volkhvy - who ensure that his will is enforced throughout their lands. The few rumours that have escaped the high walls of Petrovingia say that it is a place steeped in the worship of old gods, long forgotten by the rest of the world but still potent in their primeval might. It is also rumoured that the Volost Vuikka is now a necrolarchy – the Patriarch being long dead but still ruling from land of shadows with the aid of his sorcerer-knights. But ultimately these tales are nothing more than hearsay and equivocation, as no-one alive has ever journeyed into or out of the Volost Vuikka.

‘Then why have they strayed so far from their homelands?’ I asked. ‘What could bring them this far south, into Outremer?’

Khaled’s brow was lined with concern. ‘I do not know. I have followed them for weeks now. Their army is a thousand strong. Over two hundred are sorcerer-knights, the rest are sergeants and masked foot soldiers. But what I find most fearful is the carriage that accompanies them, of a strange design – tall and slender like a shrine, decked with gold and drawn by eight snow-white oxen. It travels at the heart of the army, surrounded by a guard of mounted sentinels - these are armed with lances and dressed in the finest raiment, their faces hidden under mail like the Mameluk askari.’

‘Yes, I saw it with my own eyes’ I said. ‘And the warlord of that army made reference to the Patriarch. Do you think this Patriarch of theirs may be travelling also?’

‘I do not know who, or what, resides within that shrine’ replied Khaled. ‘No-one knows the Petrovingian habits or customs – the carriage may bear nothing more than a high-ranking noble or priest. But if it is the Patriarch himself, we should be full of woe; a visitation by him warns of devilry on a grand scale. It is a warning of some great terror yet to come.’

Another riddle in this casket of mysteries came to mind – the dead knight bearing the strange insignia on his chest. I mentioned it to Khaled and asked him what he knew of it.

‘They are unknown to me. If they are a military order, I have not encountered them. But although I was not close to the battle, I did spy a third force – maybe ten mounted knights. Whilst the Templars and Petrovingians fought, these knights emerged from over a ridge and charged into the fray.’

‘And they fought alongside the Templars?’

‘No. They fought with the Petrovingians.’

My stomach convulsed. ‘But… the corpse on the battlefield; I knew that man. He used to be a Templar. Why would he fight against his own kind, under a new banner?’

Khaled said nothing. I gritted my teeth. ‘By Mary’s queynte, I need to find some answers.’

****

We arrived at the outskirts of Acre at dusk. Its towers were silhouetted against the red marbled sky, like an infernal city lit by diabolic fires. A few locals still roamed amongst the olive groves and orchards; the villages, fat with the villas of city burgesses, still hummed with activity. I dismounted and drew my horses off the main track. Khaled did the same.

‘What is your plan?’ he asked.

I told him. My plan was to secrete myself into the Templar commandery at the far corner of the city, breach the walls, reach the dormitory ay father’s cell, and then look through his possessions for anything that may give a clue to his whereabouts. This would not be a trivial exercise – there were two fortresses in Acre: one was the donjon; the second was the Templars’ stronghold. I reasoned that I could penetrate the city walls relatively easily – traffic through the towers, especially at St Anthony’s gate, was busy until late at night; therefore I could mingle amongst the crowds and remain hidden from the city’s militia. Similarly I could move through the city without fear, though I would need to be watchful of Templar patrols. I could reach the commandery via either the Genoese or Venetian quarters, both of which were enclosed and guarded. As far as breaching the commandery itself was concerned, I knew every inch of its imposing walls and precincts and it was normally impenetrable. But I still possessed Durand’s keys, which gave me access to the Templar Tunnel and the inner sanctum. This would be my route in. I handed my horses to Khaled and shed myself of any unnecessary equipment.

‘I entrust you with my possessions’ I said to him. ‘Let this be a test of our bond. Be assured I will return, alive or as a phantom and, one way or another, if you have fled I will track you down and put a knife in your neck.’

‘I will be here’ he replied.

‘Meet me by the Patriarch’s Tower, near the harbour’. I pointed to a tower at the southern end of the city, where its walls met the sea.

He nodded. With heart pumping I raised my hood and set out towards Acre on foot.

A faint moon was mounted in the violet sky like a pearl in the Papal cope. Slow eddies of traffic converged on the wooden bridge that spanned the deep fosse around Acre’s landward walls and provided access to St Anthony’s gate. It was the main thoroughfare into the city, intersecting the walls of the old town with the new northern suburb of Montmusard, the Jewish quarter. I kept my head low, ashamed that I was returning to the city as a murderer and thief rather than a proud Templar. I looked up only once at the huge white stone blocks of Acre’s impenetrable outer wall. The size of the crowd by the gate surprised me at first, until I noticed that the majority of the throng constituted what looked like pilgrims from the outlying villages. Then I heard clergy beyond announcing that it was the festival of the Annunciation of Our Lord, celebrating the mystery of the immaculate conception of the Holy Mother. They were calmly shepherding the denizens in the direction of one of the city’s many churches, where mass would often take place, indulgencies would be provided, shrines would be kissed and true relics of the saints sold on every street corner. The city would be busy until midnight at least. I was pleased. This provided me with the cover I needed in order to make good my plan. In a short while the Templars would attend Compline, the last service in the liturgical day, and thereafter retire. This gave me a short but vital opportunity to secrete myself into the commandery under cover of darkness and gain my father’s cell in the Templar dormitory, before the brothers went to their beds en masse.

I passed through the thick arched gate of St Anthony unchallenged and into a narrow man-made gulley between the city’s outer and inner walls. Before me stood Acre’s second line of defence – the inner bailey. This second wall was much like the first, being broken by numerous towers of various size and shape. The difference lay in its height; it was even taller than te outer wall and better fortified. A busy road traversed the perimeter of the bailey, connecting Mont Musard in the north to the cathena – the port area – in the south. I looked about me, while continuing to mingle with the throng of votaries who shuffled inexorably towards the second gate. One woman prattled to her female companion about a strange fruit, sold in the markets of Acre, known as the apple of paradise and called a ‘moz’ by the Arabs; it was yellow in colour and shaped like a man’s sex, making it a potent aphrodisiac. The other woman replied that they should go to the Pisan funda, which was the best market in Acre; this was to be expected, because the Pisans were the greatest of merchants. As she spoke, a haughty Pisan vicomte on horseback led a convoy of carts heading in our direction; with shouts and wild gesticulations he dispersed the crowd and we parted to allow his little caravan passage. Nearby a grubby-looking parson and his young heathen manciple were selling candle-lit tours to ‘Ain Baqar, a sacred area just beyond Acre’s walls where Adam was said to have tilled the soil in the earliest days of the world.

It was not until I was between the braziers flanking the second entrance that I saw the Templars, three or four of them inside the gate, keenly observing the passing crowds. They were not in mail, wearing only habits, but carrying swords and daggers nevertheless. My heart thudded. To turn against the tide of incoming traffic would look suspicious. I had no choice but to continue onwards and pass them, hood up and head down. I kept my eyes fixed on the dusty, muddy ground below. As we emerged from beyond the walled perimeter, the city opened up before us and the crowd scattered like rats into the dusk. In the distance the opulent cathedral of the Holy Cross, standing proudly over all other buildings in Acre, was stained by the late sun: a fantastical rose-coloured ship hewn from the palest stone. To my right rose the vast outer walls of the castle, uninterrupted save for a postern tower in the midst of the sheer stone. Beyond the castle lay a warren of neat alleys and streets, leading to palatial residences where many of the city’s officials were housed. I knew the area well and, forcing myself to maintain what appeared a leisurely pace, headed in that direction. I slipped quietly into a narrow, unlit lane and, signing with relief, made to cast back my hood. As I did so, someone grabbed at my wrist and spun me around, pinning me against a wall so that I faced the assailant. It was a Templar, young and with a pale wispy beard. I recognised him. He was called Gilbert de Fontmell and was an Englishman.

CHAPTER 21

‘Alaric!’ he exclaimed. ‘Alaric of Sarafand. You murdering bastard.’ His hand gripped my neck. ‘I thought it was you. It’s easy to spot a traitor, even without his beard.’

I said nothing, which seemed to leave him nonplussed. ‘You fool’ he continued, ‘returning to Acre when the body of Raynaud has barely cooled. Did you really think the brethren would not hound you to the ends of the earth? You cannot escape the justice of the Templars. You of all people should know this.’ His hand squeezed harder. Still I made no sound.

‘Speak!’ he commanded, and struck me with his knee hard in the belly. ‘Why have you returned here?’ He struck me again and I doubled over, clutching my midriff, but said nothing.

‘Be silent then. You can be sure that your death will be slow and painful. When the bodies of your victims were discovered, the commander swore an oath that he personally would not rest until he had made good his revenge upon you. I always thought you a little prick anyway, but now so does everyone else. And a murderer of a good Templar to boot.’

He was too slow and inexperienced to block the pommel of my dagger as it rose and cracked the underside of his lower jaw. The blow caused him to bite into his tongue, from which blood oozed. Swiftly I hammered the dagger handle against the bridge of his nose, once, twice. His legs buckled and he collapsed to the cobbled floor. His nose was certainly broken and his tongue almost severed, but he was not dead. I looked about me. No sign of the second and third Templars. Yet. I dragged the prone body deeper into the alley, stupidly intending to somehow camouflage it against prying eyes. Finally I realised that I now had the best of all costumes for gaining uninhibited access to the Templar commandery – the Templar habit itself which, despite a few blood flecks, was in good condition. I feverishly stripped Gilbert of his outer white tunic, bearing the red cross of the order, and tied it about me. I dusted off his black cotton skullcap, placed it on my sun-bleached head, and trotted quickly away from the body. Although I hoped to benefit from my new disguise, time was now also against me. Not only did I need to breach the commandery before the end of Compline, I now also had to do so before Gilbert’s fellow Templars located his body and sounded the alarm. The narrow alley disgorged me into a small yard, where a few children squatted and studiedly extracted the sweet juice from a faggot of spent sugar cane. They all looked up as I emerged, but I ignored them and hurried on. Ahead of me loomed the massive compound and long infirmary of the Knights of the Hospital, which abutted the Genoese quarter. To my left were the Venetian quarter, the harbour and the fabulous temple to Venetian excess - the church of St Mark. I would need to traverse all these before I reached, at the very extremity of the city’s defences, the Templars’ commandery. The evening was growing darker and fires of various size and purpose now provided the only light. Wherever there was illumination, there was also activity. As I approached the Venetian quarter it was as though night had been banished, so bright were the fires from the busiest of the funda. The smells were intoxicating, carried to my nostrils by the stiff sea winds. I entered the market through a stone palisade, which was unmanned. Before me were tents, white billowing pavilions flying all manner of banners and standards that snapped in the brisk night air; stalls peddled every possible meat and bread; the aromas of garlic and shallots, fennel, sage and lemon were like an impious incense, making all who smelled them lusty for worldly pleasures and sensual indulgences. Beyond this the church of St Mark and the nearby palaces, adorned with glass, impassively reflected these dancing fires. I weaved my way through the crowd of merchants, burgesses, seafarers, townsfolk and villagers, towards the church of St Laurent which marked the perimeter of the Genoese quarter. This church was only slightly less ornate than the Venetians’ and the Genoese funda only slightly less exotic. I plunged onwards, into the Pisan quarter, scampering along a labyrinth of narrow alleyways until I approached a wooden door beneath an innocuous stone arch, hidden in the corner of a ramshackle wall. This was the entrance to the Templar Tunnel. And it was guarded, by one of the Order’s men-at-arms. Merde. They must have known I had a key and may use it. This seriously jeopardised my plan. Without secret access to the commandery, I would have no choice but to bluff my way in.

Heart thudding, I turned away and walked swiftly through Acre’s bak streets. I was fast approaching the Templar stronghold, which was now visible above the palaces, the flat-roofed houses and their neat little walls. I could see our chapel above the monastery of St Anne and the great bell tower nearby; I could see the Master’s palace roof and – most impressively – I could see the great gilded lions that perched atop its two main towers. Though made of stone, they were the size and form of real lions. I knew them and loved them as well as any brother - they were the most excellent sight in all of Acre – and my heart, though befouled with sin, leapt and ached at once to see them again. Nevertheless, the Templar citadel was the strongest fortress in the city and I needed swift access to it. My plan was simple – I was going to knock. The great studded oak door – the only nighttime entrance to the compound - was now locked, as I knew it would be. Although I had gained entry through this door a hundred times before and knew the procedure without question, my palms still sweated. I was concerned that my clean-shaven features that, a day earlier, had aided my escape from Acre, could now compromise my anonymity; the beard was as much part of the Templar costume as the white habit and red cross. I approached cautiously, raised my hood, took a breath, and rapped hard against the wood three times with my dagger pommel.

‘Brother Gilbert’ I announced, ‘returning from late watch at St Anthony’s gate.’

Bolts were drawn back and a smaller door, set into the larger, was opened. I stepped through. Beyond were two sergeants, in mail.

‘God give you good evening’ I said. They nodded in acknowledgement. Without hesitation I began to walk across the darkened courtyard towards the magnificent round church; beyond it lay the domestic buildings, including the dormitory.

‘Brother Gilbert, a moment,’ began one of the guards. I stopped, feeling my heart pound, and cocked my cowled head to one side.

‘Yes? What is it sergeant?’

‘Forgive me, but did you not set out with Brother Peter of Belfort and Brother Guillaume d’Etampes this afternoon? Why are they not with you?’

My head swam. Why were they not with me? I had no good explanation. When I had been absent in the past, whoring the night away in Acre’s fleshpots, my friends usually bribed a brother into conjuring a suitable cover story. I knew Brother Guillaume had a taste for women, although not as great as my own.

‘There… were rumours of a sighting near the Church of Pope Joan.’ This was the brothers’ term for Acre’s brothels, found in the west of the city. ‘I fear they may be gone some time. Possibly until morning.’

The guards guffawed loudly. ‘Visiting the Albigensian quarter eh? Wine and sodomy for half a pugeoise, eh? Gone to watch that mystery play… What’s it called?’ asked one.

‘’Le Chevalier et de trois femmes’… heh heh’ replied the other.

‘That’s it. One Templar, three wives and a fish. And you know what happens to the fish?’

‘No. But I can guess’ I replied.

‘Heh. Of course you can,’ continued the guard, ‘being a man of the world, a well-travelled knight and suchlike. Do you want to hear the story of Prester John and Melusine? It’s my own version – there’s a well-hung stallion in it. And a singing pig.’

‘Would that I had the time’ I said, keeping my face hidden. ‘Good night gentle sergeants.’ I left the guards to their ribaldry and hurried across the courtyard. A sense of humour, I reflected, is indeed a powerful tool of distraction.

CHAPTER 22

I was now within the massive Templar compound and, hurriedly speeding past the round church, faintly heard the litany of the hours being recalled inside. I moved in shadow between the warming house, the pittancery and the latrines until reaching the sprawling gable-roofed dormitory. It was accessed from outside, via a flight of stone steps that led to an unlocked door. I climbed these and, with dagger half drawn, opened the door and slipped within. I was in a long, dimly-lit and vaulted corridor, at the far end of the dormitory. Here were the shared quarters used by the sergeant brothers, the chaplains and the bailes. Four archways to the left led off into darkness, where their mats and personal effects would be found. On my right was an arcade of pillars. Beyond this the moon cast its grey fingers through a line of tall mullioned windows along a low, vaulted aisle. The cavernous interior was dark and silent, save for the creak of floorboards underfoot as I progressed along the corridor. I was now approaching the individual cells reserved for knights and the obedientiaries who held high office. Although my father never officially secured a senior post, he was still granted many privileges reserved for those of a certain rank. It was in this section of the dormitory that his cell would be found. I passed the doors to the Turcopolier’s quarters, then the Draper, the Gonfanier, the Cellarer, the Priors, the Sacrist, Pittancer, Almoner, Guest Master and the Marshall. I stopped at this point, suddenly keen to enter Raynaud le Jaune’s cell and see if I could sense his presence, brush against the hand of his ghost. As his murderer I felt I had the right to also violate the earthly remnants of his cruel little life. But not tonight. My father’s cell was at the end of the aisle. I pushed the door gently and peered inside. Through the darkness I spied a sleeping mat, a plain cross, nailed to the stone wall, a pile of clothing neatly folded, a tent bag and a few blankets. On a roughly made shelf were a cup and a simple, wooden box. I drew closer to the latter, removed it and lifted the lid. Inside were various personal effects: a number of bonds, my father’s family seal plus the Templar’s seal, coinage – dinars, dirhams and bezants, some sprigs of a dried plant, a ring, a locket and a small, empty reliquary. I took the coins and lifted the box back onto the shelf. And paused. The box’s resting place concealed what looked like a small alcove carved into the wall and protected by a cover of painted wood, which I tapped. Hollow inside. I used my dagger to prise out the wooden cover and then reached into the tiny void, just big enough for my fingers. What felt like a solid, heavy mass, wrapped in fabric, nestled at end of the alcove. My fingertips brushed against it but it was too far out of reach. I paused for a moment to think, and suddenly broke into a cold sweat as I heard the regular, solid rhythm of feet climbing the wooden stairwell to the dormitory. Compline was over. The brothers were returning to their cells. My fingers jabbed frantically into the alcove, straining to hook whatever lay beyond. I gasped and sweated as my hand grad against the edges of the stonework, to no avail. The door at the far end of the dormitory had been opened, and noisy foot falls on the wooden floorboards grew near. With one last effort I stabbed my dagger point into the hole, caught the fabric therein, and carefully dragged the bundle towards me. It was a silk pouch holding what felt like two heavy, pebble-shaped objects. I stuffed it into my tunic and stepped as calmly as possible out of my father’s cell and into the corridor. Behind me, further down the hall, were at least three brothers. One of them called to me but I ignored him. I reached the second exit at the near end of the dormitory and opened it. Below me was another flight of stairs and, at ground level, five brothers about to climb up. With heart racing I descended the stairs as they began their ascent towards me. We met near the middle; they moved aside to let me pass and I said nothing. They glanced at me with vague curiosity; I could feel their eyes on me. In less than an heartbeat I had looked up and met the gaze of Brother Berthold de Morimond. His eyes widened into discs of surprise.

‘Alaric!’ he exclaimed in a whisper, almost to himself. By this time I had passed them all and reached the base of the stairwell to begin the journey across the exposed eastern courtyard.

‘It’s Alaric of Sarafand!’ screamed Berthold behind me. ‘He’s here. Sound the alarm – the murderer is returned. Ring the bell!’

Without looking back I broke into a run and headed towards the cloister, and cover. In moments, the commandery had been roused to action. Sudden and insistent peals from the bell tower called through the night. Brothers appeared from the chapel and outbuildings; firebrands, held aloft, danced and cracked across the compound. All I heard was my own breathing and the dull, rapid thud of my heart. Bent low, I scuttled across the moonlit cloister, through the orchard and almond trees and onto cool flagstones. Ahead of me was the heavy oak door that led to the western range of domestic buildings and outhouses. I swung the door ajar with a grunt and slipped through. I decided to head towards the stables, where I could steal a horse and flee the commandery through the northern gate. I sprinted towards the giant arch that led to the inner bailey and the great courtyard, where the Master’s palace was located. Immediately I realised this was a terrible mistake. The place was awash with brothers, no doubt protecting the palace from any potential attack. Across the thronging courtyard was the northern gate – my escape – and against that far wall were the stables, the armoury and the smith’s quarters. Frantically I looked about me for somewhere to hide, somewhere less exposed. But too late – almost immediately I was identified. Brothers shouted and pointed; arrows, fired from the walls, whipped past dangerously close. I needed to move before I was herded or outflanked and captured. I would rather die than endure the torture my brothers no doubt planned to inflict on me. To the west, in the remotest part of the compound, was a small hermitage, separate from the Templar’s monastic rule. There, a ragged community of hermits - Melkites, Carmelites, Armenians and others – eked out an existence in solitary, silent contemplation. They were rarely disturbed, being regarded as holy men and held in the highest regard, with a mixture of awe and reverence, by the brothers. I ran into the darkness, in the direction of the hermitage. One brother, bearing a torch, appeared from the nearby stables and threw himself at me, knocking both of us to the ground. I was grazed and winded, but the first to recover. I sliced at his flailing hands with my dagger, rolled away from him and stamped at his head with my feet. The surrounding brothers approached us but I was up again, with a torch in my hand, and running from them as fast as I could. The hermitage was a semi-circular enclosure. A tiny chapel sat in one corner against the high walls that surrounded the compound; they protected it both from attack and from the savage waves that lashed the shore in high winds. Built into those walls, thick enough for five men to lie across head-to-toe, were the hermit’s cells, spread as far apart from one another as possible. They were nothing more than caves and rarely included a sleeping mat, let alone a bed or other such niceties. These contemplatives lived in abject poverty, owned nothing, fasted regularly and were often forbidden to leave their cells. I always found the hermitage a desperate, lonely place; to me the hermits were less venerable mystics and more deranged and broken men. Nevertheless, I showed them utmost respect, if not veneration, and in the few moments I now had to act, could barely believe what I intended to do. My eternal soul would surely be consigned to the diabolic fires. But I had no choice. I approached the nearest cell and thrust my torch inside. A frail-looking man, wearing nothing save a long smock and rough habit, smeared in dirt and blood, sat on the dusty floor amidst what looked and smelled like his own ordure. With eyes tightly shut he rocked gently and mouthed silent appellations.

‘Brother, you must come with me’ I said quietly. He offered no response. Gently, I reached for his arm. ‘Brother, get up. Christ has already saved your soul. Now you must save my earthly body.’ I pulled at his arm and slowly he looked towards me, revealing a haggard face, matted beard and confused, watery eyes that glistened in the torchlight. ‘Don’t be frightened brother’ I soothed. ‘But you must come with me. Now.’ I lifted him to his feet and, with an arm around his waist, helped him out into the enclosure’s yard. He emerged from the cell like Lazarus from the tomb. Before me, in silence, stood a sizeable congregation of Templars, with Guillaume de Beaujeu the Grand Master, and the Commander of Jerusalem towards the front of the crowd. Immediately I pulled the hermit closer and held the point of my dagger to his neck.

‘Allow me safe passage from the Temple’ I shouted. ‘Or I will slit this holy man’s throat. Let him vouchsafe my exit from Acre. I will leave him unharmed beyond the city walls, where you may collect him. Thereafter, you will never see me again.’

No-one spoke for some moments. Then the Master, despite looking tired and drawn, replied with his familiar air of calm authority. ‘Brother Alaric. You are, if nothing else, audacious. Why have you returned to the Temple, knowing full well the fate that would await you? In the past I would have ascribed such foolishness to the impetuosity of youth. But now you are a man and there can be no such excuses. You are either possessed or an idiot. It matters not. You will not leave this place alive.’

Seeing the Master again, whom I had loved dearly, and hearing his words bred confusion within me. Indeed, at that moment in the crisp, strained hush of the night, my nervous eyes flitted across the compound where every flagstone and leaf was familiar to me, and I realised how much I had lost. This great fortress, steeped in history and valour and fraternal love, was my home. The brothers were my family. Now I would die here, an ignoble death, at their hand. I could feel their seething animosity – once friends and blood brothers, they now regarded me with contempt. My gaze was drawn from one familiar face to another, their features masked with anger and hatred, or a flicker of pity, embarrassment or disdain. Some new arrivals from outside Acre looked on with bemusement. I felt suddenly thin and weak. Whais a man to do when he has destroyed his own life, lost his home and turned loved ones against him?

The Master stepped forward, his tall and noble frame seeming to rise up from the crowd. He was a veteran of campaigns across Outremer, distinguished in battle, always leading from the front and by example. He was a leader of men, advisor to kings, a skilled diplomat, master strategist and pious Christian. Even now, as always, I admired him and sensed a yearning compulsion to do good in his eyes. Such is the unswerving loyalty that great men inspire. I knew he was shrewd; he would be playing for time, coaxing and taunting me in equal measure. He had already weighed the situation, cut to the quick of it. He wanted me dead. It was that simple. For a moment I knew he would win; all I wanted was to collapse to my knees and beg forgiveness.

He spoke again. This time his voice was kinder, softer. ‘Have you not spilled enough innocent blood already, Brother Alaric? Have you not already ridden roughshod over our laws and our traditions? What do you aim to achieve from all this? You can never be a Templar again, but you are still a knight. My friend, redeem yourself in our eyes and in the eyes of God – here and now. Exhibit the knightly virtues by confronting your death with courage and humility. Let the anchorite go, give yourself up and I swear on the seal of our order that your execution will be swift and painless.’

I paused, faltered. Even in this predicament I felt a thrill of delight that the Master was addressing me and me alone. I had his undivided attention. But I could not act. I was somehow numbed, in a kind of resigned stupor.

The Master moved towards me again. ‘Come Alaric’ he said. ‘Honour you father’s memory and make this, your last corporeal act, a penitent one.’

CHAPTER 23

‘No’ I replied, now roused from indecision. ‘No, my Lord. I will not yield. Because you have lied to me.’

Seeing that his strategy had failed, and that the allotted time for dealing with me had not been fruitful, the Master now grew impatient. ‘The largest heathen army ever assembled marches on Acre’ he said bitterly. ‘And yet here you are, a weak and godless man of sin, given to all manner of licentiousness. You waste my time while the fate of this kingdom hangs by a thread. Goodbye Alaric of Sarafand.’ Exasperated, he stepped back and cast a quick nod to the newly-appointed Marshall. I was now ignored. He turned his back to me and, accompanied by his lieutenants and the Commander, made his way through the parting crowd to his palace across the courtyard.

I spied archers on the walls draw their bows and so began to drag the hermit, still held close, in the direction of the stables, mindful that a moving target, no matter how slow, would be more difficult to hit.

As the Master departed I called after him. ‘You would do well, my Lord, to honour my father by confessing your lies to the brethren assembled here. Both you and the Commander of Jerusalem proclaim him dead. Yet, in truth, I tell you he is still alive.’

At this the Master stopped in his tracks. He turned sharply, his heavy brow furrowed, anger flickering in his lively eyes.

‘What is this insolence?’ he demanded.

‘I did kill Raynaud le Jaune’ I continued, now almost defiant. ‘Yes, and that dirty heathen who rode into Acre. Grief possessed me; I murdered a Templar and will, no doubt, taste the fires for it come the time of judgement. But the Commander said my father had been killed. That was an untruth, as you both know. Brother Michael de Losinga overheard you speaking. You said my father was alive and he was a threat.’

A grimace spread across the Master’s broad features. ‘Ah yes. Brother Michael. He aided your escape from Acre, did he not? He was a fool to place loyalty to his friend above his loyalty to the Temple. I can assure you that the punishment for abetting the safe passage of a murderer was commensurate with his crime. He is dead. Another innocent victim of your sinful legacy.’

‘And of your deceit’ I retorted, my weary heart once more fired with the loss of another dear friend.

The Commander of Jerusalem, slim, grey and disdainful, now spoke. ‘I remember you Brother Alaric, at the gates of Acre, asking after your father. I can understand your grief. I am all too aware of the difficulties in accepting his loss. He was a fine Templar, a great, great warrior and a fount of Christian goodness. I saw him fall when we were attacked by Mameluk raiders. I saw him fight valiantly against the heathen but to no avail. They overwhelmed him, and others. His body still lies on the field where he fell.’

My eyes narrowed as I contemplated his deception. ‘If the fathers of this holy fraternity are given so easily to such naked lies, I thank God I am no longer a Templar. I have visited that field of battle and neither his body nor his horse was amongst the dead. And you were not attacked by the infidel, but by Petrovingian knights – sorcerers from a country far to the north.’

At this revelation the Master and the Commander wore expressions of shock. My knowledge obviously extended further than they gave me credit for. They glanced at each other and whispered a swift exchange. Murmurs and exclamations passed amongst the assembled Templars. What was this madness? Who were these so-called sorcerers?

Frowning, the Master looked at me and spoke. ‘These are serious allegations you make against us brother’ he began. ‘And you may rest assured that, had your claims not aroused our interest to hear more, I would have already commanded these archers to riddle your body. However, under the circumstances we are keen to hear what other news you have. I suggest we talk further. In private.’

I did not move. The master beckoned me towards him. ‘You have my word, as a Templar, that no harm will come to you. Let us retire to my palace. Any news of your father’s wellbeing would delight us greatly.’ He forced a weak smile upon his immobile features.

I shook my head. Now that I had something they wanted, I took the initiative and made clear my demands. ‘No. You have lied to me already and you are not to be trusted. If I do have anything else to tell you it will not be said tonight. Provide me with a horse and safe passage out of Acre, or kill me now.’

The archers around the compound bristled, their bows pulled taught. For my own safety I added ‘you can be sure my Lord, that I do have much information that would intrigue you.’ This was a bluff, but I hoped it would save me.

The Master and the Commander consulted again. All eyes were on them. The latter stepped towards me. I pressed my dagger edge against the skin of the hermit’s neck. In a low voice the Master said to me ‘boy, you are a cur and a blight on this order. The heathen you murdered was sent to help us find your father. Unfortunately, since the Muslim is now dead you may be our best and only hope. Tell me one thing. Do you know where your father is now?’

‘Yes’ I lied.

‘Very well’ he replied. ‘I will grant you safe passage from here. But you must send word to me within the week, in order that we might resolve this… unpleasant situation. If I do not hear from you – and pray that I do – I will hunt you down like the dog you are and, as God is my witness, I will kill you myself. Do we have an agreement?’

‘We do’ I replied.

The Master made the stable boy fetch a horse. I leaped into the saddle and hauled the hermit up so that he sat before me. I also selected a young and inexperienced knight to accompany me across the city to the Patriarch’s Tower, knowing that he would be too fearful of me to attempt any foolishness. The doors of the northern gate swung open for us as we trotted towards them. The brothers, with the Master and Commander at their head, grimly observed our departure.

‘Do not forget our pact’ called out the Master after us. ‘Within the week, Alaric of Sarafand.’

As we passed through the heavy stone portal, I acknowledged him. ‘I give you my word’ I replied, and more quietly: ‘I give my word. As a Templar.’ I had no intention whatsoever of returning.

The young brother knight said nothing as we made our way through Acre’s seething streets and avenues. At the cusp of the city, by the Patriarch’s gate, the hermit and I dismounted. I handed the reins to the young Templar and nodded to him in thanks. ‘Return to your brothers’ I said. He looked at me with the haughty, proud glare of an idealistic youth, spat in my direction then wheeled his horses and galloped back into the heart of city.

Beyond the gates, in the darkness amidst the lush groves that encircled Acre’s walls, sat Khaled, beside a small fire and beneath a large fig tree. He was carving the same piece of jade from the previous night, firelight flickering across his busy hands. Khaled looked up as we approached and frowned.

‘Who is this?’ he demanded, gesticulating towards the hermit with his knife.

‘An anchorite’ I replied. ‘A holy man. I took him hostage and will burn in Hell for my sins.’

Khaled wrinked his nose and looked doubtful. ‘This… beggar is a holy man? He is covered in his own filth. He wears rags. And he is holy to you?’ He shook his head and returned to his carving. ‘Sometimes, you Christians bewilder me.’

The hermit merely continued to stand in our midst, utterly mute and head bowed, his matted hair gently buffeted by the breezI passed him some water from my flask, which he took. Then I reached for the silk pouch I had obtained whilst in my father’s cell. Emptying the two pebbles into the palm of my hand, I gasped loudly enough for Khaled to climb to his feet and witness the two, perfectly smooth pieces of polished gold in my grasp.

‘Where did you find these?’ he whispered.

‘In my father’s cell, hidden behind a wall. What are they?’ I wondered.

‘They are solid gold!’ exclaimed Khaled, picking one up and testing its weight. ‘Worth a fortune I would say. And look – there are markings on both. It looks like Hebrew, but very ancient. I cannot read them.’

‘My father did not mean these to be found’ I continued, staring at the golden disks. ‘They held some other significance for him, beyond any value at market. He placed no store in material wealth.’

Khaled looked away, suddenly deep in thought. ‘I do not speak the language of the Jews, and know only some of their customs and culture. I cannot conceive of the purpose or function of these artefacts.’ He looked at me. ‘All I can do surmise their role. That they are made of solid gold suggests huge import – ritual significance. They are without doubt ancient.’

‘How old exactly?’

Khaled licked his dry lips, as he was wont to do. ‘Who knows? Possibly… as old as Moses himself.’

I felt faint. ‘Then they are priceless.’

Khaled was deep in thought again. ‘Yes… There is one man who will know for sure, will be able to tell us without any doubt, the nature of their provenance. It will not be easy to locate him, but I can guarantee that he will possess the answers you seek.’

‘Who is this man?’

‘He is Melchisedek Tob. The Jew of the Sun.’

CHAPTER 24

We left the suburbs of Acre and rode east in the thick night, until we found shelter beside an old shepherd’s hut, now no more than a collection of rubble. Khaled assembled a fire so quickly it was as though he magicked flame out of the air. I helped the anchorite from my horse and sat him down. Still he had not spoken once. I observed him across the fire as I removed my Templar surcoat; he was a thin, shivering bird of a man, seemingly wound taut by his new circumstances and yet rapt in otherworldly contemplation.

‘He’s shivering’ I spoke to Khaled. ‘He’s cold. We should feed him.’

‘Not cold. Frightened. Terrified. It’s pitiful – he does not know himself.’

I wanted the hermit to think me kind, not sinful; to absolve me of his rude kidnap from the Templars. I passed him some dried meat and wine, which he did not accept.

‘Here, take it’ I said, smiling. ‘We mean you no harm. What is your name holy man?’

Silence was the only reply. I sighed. ‘There’s nothing holy in him’ muttered Khaled. ‘Only devils. He belongs to the evil one.’

‘You do not know goodness’ spat the hermit suddenly. ‘No. You do not know it. You are the evil thing, the black thing. The black river that flows into the black sea of filth. Satan’s ocean in which the idolatrous and the lustful drown in their own sin.’ The hermit spoke with such venom that Khaled and I both recoiled onto our haunches, rearing like startled horses. But just as suddenly as this outburst spewed forth, so it withdrew again and his face became slack and beatific, his voice soft and lilting like a minstrel’s.

‘But the wellspring of all creation… ah, yes – even the evil one, and all evil things – is His goodness. He is the fount of life. Yes. And it is through this sacrifice, this shedding of sin, that I will return to Him.’ The Carmelite now sat with his hands raised, in a limp gesture of praise.

‘By Allah’ whispered Khaled, ‘he has lost his reason’.

‘But found God’ I asserted, annoyed at Khaled’s impudence. ‘He remains wise enough to recognise the true religion.’

‘What is your accent, brother?’ I asked, turning to the hermit. ‘Spanish? Portuguese? Where are you from?’

For a moment the hermit ignored me. A tangle of bone and hair, he watched his hands make patterns in the dust. Then, without warning, he began sobbing uncontrollably. ‘Oh my son. It is terrible to remember. I cannot speak of it. I will not. I have endured, oh yes – beyond most. I have travelled far along the road of suffering. I wondered to myself many times, Benito, will you ever return? I lost hope. But one day I may return home. Yes, to be returned. That is my only goal now.’

‘What happened?’ I asked gently. ‘I assure you brother, I can be trusted.’

A brooding silence again. Then suddenly, another outburst.’

‘It was him’ he spat, jabbing a finger at Khaled. ‘The infidel. They truly are the sons of Lucifer, these men of Islam. They do not have mercy. But in that they are no different to the others – that is what I believe. Mercy has fled this world forever. This land is nothing but a veil of tears. Only on the day of reckoning will we see justice done. But there are others for whom God will show less mercy. I tell you now: worse than the Muslim or any heretic, is the Cursed Race.’

‘The Jews?’ I queried.

He nodded, bitterness and hate twisted across his features. ‘Cursed they are for good reason. They are liars, jealous, proud and covetous. All. Deceivers. All of them. They are weighed down with sin and they will destroy man’s covenant with God. Do not trust! It is the truth I tell – I have seen it!’

His story was rambling, faltering, and sometimes incoherent. But we listened, beside the fire, mesmerised by this strange recluse who spoke in a thick Spanish accent, sometimes breaking into Latin or Greek, sometimes mumbling in a strange argot known only to him. His name was Benito Velasquez de Fuente Encalato, that much I discovered. Thereafter, everything was nonsense and fantasy, as far as I could tell. He referred to basilisks, the Holy city of Jerusalem, strange omens and portents, a star called Wormwood, years of darkness and blood, lakes of ash, regents mutilated. But underneath the drivel was a keen, brooding fear and hatred of Jews and Muslims, and despite my entreaties, I could not encourage Benito to explain this irrational terror. As he spoke, the Carmelite’s blue, flaming eyes were glued to Khaled; they stared out from under his unruly brow and burned with a strange, pained intensity, like a wounded dog. Khaled was clearly uncomfortable, and left to tend his horse.

‘My only solace now is the life of contemplation’ said Benito quietly, almost to himself. ‘To withdraw from this corrupted world. To live an obedient life. This is what God craves. Obedience. Quietness – and trust. Yes. In quietness and trust shall be your strength.’ He frowned suddenly and looked around frantically.

‘Where is this place?’ he asked, a note of panic in his voice. ‘Who are you? Who is this? An infidel! Ah – stay away. Do not come near. Lord, protect me from the heathen!’ He staggered to his feet, churning dust around him, and suddenly broke into a manic run. ‘I must return,’ he gasped. ‘To safety. To the safe place.’ Like a frightened mule, he swerved frenziedly into the night. Moments later I was on my feet and after him.

‘Let the madman go’ called Khaled wearily, looking across at us.

The hermit was surprisingly tough and wiry. I brought him to the floor with ease, but his soiled limbs flayed and scratched as I tried to calm him.

‘Lord, help your loyal servant!’ he wailed. ‘Keep these devils at bay! Do not touch me. Do not come near. Stay away! Stay away or death will come to you.’

‘Hush’ I exclaimed. ‘We will not harm you. But you must be silent.’

He would not see reason. He was determined that no-one should approach him, and as I did so his clawed hands grasped my face, pushing me away in desperation, I lunged at him, my fist striking him hard across the jaw. He collapsed without further fuss. I threw his prone body over my shoulder and staggered back to the campfire.

Khaled was sitting nonchalantly, legs crossed and smirking. ‘I see that you have resorted to a course of action I would have employed some time ago.’

I lay Benito’s unconscious body on a rug and with fingertips gingerly dabbed at my scratched face. ‘Mad he may be, but most men are driven to madness by the actions of other men. Who knows what he has endured? I for one know what it is to be tormented, how it can inflame a man’s mind and corrupt his reason.’ I sat down and took a deep draught of wine. ‘He and I, we are not so different. He seeks solace in the cloistered life. I console myself by other means.’

‘I do not doubt he has suffered hardship’ said Khaled slowly. ‘It is the way of things when evil and corruption infects men’s hearts. All we can do it try to protect ourselves from its influence.’

I raised an eyebrow in Khaled’s direction. ‘And you have managed this feat I suppose?’

Yes’ he replied. ‘In part. I have discovered practices for limiting the influence of the Evil One upon me, but controlling my desires.’ He nodded towards Benito. ‘This man has his own solution. You, I fear, have no such protection; you are vulnerable to the lures of Iblis, like a mouse in a snakepit.’

I reflected once again that I was outside the Templar’s aegis, still a churl and a murderer. While those around me resisted life’s temptations, I seemed to indulge them willingly.

‘What shall you do with him?’ asked Khaled, nodding towards the recumbent hermit.

I shrugged. ‘I regret bringing him here – he is too much a liability. I know he is my responsibility, but the hermit will burden us – I admit it. Even though it was by my doing that he is here now.’

‘You must leave him. If not here then at the next village we reach. Worst of all, his fear and hatred of Jews will not aid our attempts to seek the help of Melchisedek Tob.’

This was indeed true. ‘And how will we find this Jew of the Sun? Where must we travel to find him?’ I asked.

‘He is by no means an easy man to track down’ replied Khaled. ‘But I have a friend, who resides beyond the walls of the town of Saffuriyah. He will be able to help us. It is him we must seek first.’

‘Very well’ I replied. ‘We leave – the three of us – at dawn.’

CHAPTER 25

I slept fitfully that night, waking often at the sound of Benito’s wails and cries, and through the darkness I saw Khaled, sitting upright and alert, looking feverishly about him as he had done the nights before. I saw the terror sparkling in his eyes and a dull morbidity descended on me. Our party was a ragged, damaged piece of humanity: an insane hermit, a possessed heathen and a faithless, exiled Templar. What chance did I have of finding my father? What chance did we have of anything? I was glad for the sunrise, and the chance to occupy my mind with the trials of a new day.

Saffuriyah was a small desert town with a castle at its midst, lying south-east of Acre. We set out early the next morning at a good pace, while flocks of birds overhead chorused the re-born sun. Benito now appeared more in command of his reason. He was also in a foul mood.

‘Am I your prisoner?’ he demanded from the saddle of Awad, my faithful destrier. ‘Am I to be tortured again? Sold into slavery? Made the chattel of some heathen lord? Is this why you took me from my cell? To barter the life of a man of God for gold? Avarice. Sinful. You are both riddled with it. Especially you –’ he pointed at me – ‘a Christian, consorting with the infidel. He cannot be saved. But you… Repent. Repent my son.’

He looked faintly ludicrous, this dishevelled zealot sat atop a huge warhorse, like a monkey riding the back of a mule.

He leaned forward and studied me, rocking in his saddle. ‘Who are you? Yesterday you wore the rosy cross of a Templar. Today, you are all in black. A man of mystery Dressed like death. Is that who you are? Has my time come? You sought me, led me from my place of safety, to join the danse macabre. The long dance. Or short. Where do you lead us? Where shall we lie, when the dance has ended?’

His ramblings sunk into me and I shivered. I did not enjoy this talk of Death, for I knew that she was nearby, just out of sight but always at my shoulder. I fretted that Death was leading me, leading all of us, to our inexorable destruction. This quest for my father, all shrouded in omens and mystery, was itself a danse macabre. Whether I found him or not I knew that, at the end, ragged and skeletal Death would be laughing and waiting for us all.

‘No’ I replied. ‘I am not Death, though I may unwittingly lead you to her. I am like you my friend – on a pilgrimage of sorts; a quest, seeking peace. I was a Templar once. Now I must redeem myself, but I do not know how. So instead we seek the wisdom of others, in Saffuiyah. That is where our journey leads us, for now.’

‘I too may lead you to death’ said Benito, with a strange note of venom in his tone. ‘That is my fate now, to be a lone penitent, or a death-bringer. Stay away from me Christian; and be warned – your quest is already cursed. I do not think you will find peace while I am your companion. You would be best to send me into the wilderness, where I will bring harm to nothing save vultures.’ Then his face softened, he smiled, and his free hand marked the air with the stations of the cross. ‘Sir Knight, be justified freely by His grace through the redemption that is in Jesus Christ.’

We approached Saffuiyah near midday, from the north, and began to pass by occasional caravans of families, both Christian and Muslim. Their beasts of burden were weighed down with precarious bundles, misshapen towers of rope and sackcloth. When they saw us heading towards the town, not away, the fathers viewed us with suspicious and incredulity; the children, bound to their mothers, craned their necks in interest. The few villages we passed through were either empty or rapidly disgorging their harassed inhabitants.

‘They leave because they hear rumours of the Mameluk army – the coming tide of war’ murmured Khaled.

‘Another bad omen’ I replied. The empty streets finally parted to reveal the low curtain wall of Saffuriyah’s castle. Beside its simple, squat barbican a few merchants still loitered, including a dark-skinned man, a Berber, swathed in blue cotton robes that were gathered at his waist by a thick belt, which in turn was congested with metal loops and keys of various sizes. He was sturdy, but not fat, and although his face was lacerated with a hundred scars, his mouth smiled and his brown eyes sparkled. He wore thick leather gauntlets, wrapped with binding along the length of his forearms, and was surrounded by hundreds of assorted wicker cages, piled high along the length of the castle wall. All around him the floor was caked with white spatters, for within each cage was a bird, some still and placid, some flapping and hopping noisily; some marked by vivid splashes of colour, others dull and brooding.

‘Good. He is here’ said Khaled, and jumped from his horse. He walked over to the man who, wearing an expression of delight, embraced him with vigour. They began chattering animatedly in the Berber’s native tongue, laughing and gesticulating. Khaled beckoned me over an I dismounted, leaving Benito with the horses.

‘Let me introduce an old friend’ said Khaled, beaming widely. ‘Alaric of Samarkand, meet Sabiq-al-Raqqah Sadid-al-Mulk Nasr – the keeper of Syria’s last avian market.’ The Berber greeted me in the Muslim fashion.

‘All these birds you see are available for purchase – or rent’ Khaled continued. ‘Some of them are most rare, brought here from the far corners of the world; others are very intelligent – highly trained for specific tasks. He tells me that the inhabitants of Saffuriyah are fleeing the villages and towns and heading north, because of the Mameluks – as we guessed. The army is laying waste to everything before it, and it will reach Saffuriyah in a matter of days. But he is not afraid. When the time comes, he will release the birds and they will bear him aloft beyond the clutches of al-Ashraf’s men!’

At this the Berber laughed heartily, flapping his arms and pointing towards the heavens.

‘This is all very well’ I said to Khaled, ‘but what can this bird-man do for us? We seek the man you call Melchisedek Tob. By Mary’s dugs, I don’t see how birds can help.’

‘You will’ he replied, smiling enigmatically. ‘Be patient.’

Khaled spoke rapidly to the Berber again, who nodded and turned towards the wicker cages. He selected one, containing a hooded falcon sitting quite still and silent, unlocked the door with a key from his belt, and reached inside with a gauntleted hand. The falcon, a small bell around its neck, sat proudly on his wrist; when he removed the hood, the falcon’s eyes went straight to his master; it blinked, parted its martial beak and expelled a sharp screech. The Berber smiled and stroked it affectionately, while reaching into a wicker basket and removing a mouse, which he threw to the floor. The falcon was upon it before it was able to flee; trapped under powerful claws, the mouse could do nothing except wait for death. With wings slightly parted, the falcon’s beak stabbed and ripped, and the mouse became no more than another meal for the hungry predator.

Khaled went to his horse and pulled from his saddlebag a small scrap of vellum, a pen and inkpot. With sudden concentration he sunk to the ground and kneeling, took the quill and carefully began to write. When he was finished he brought the message to the Berber, who took it and whistled to the falcon; without hesitation it returned to its master’s arm, where Khaled gingerly secured the message to the falcon’s leg with a piece of twine. Stroking the bird, the Berber observed me and said, ‘this bird, he is called Qamar which means ‘the moon’. He is the prince of his kind, and he knows many things. He knows where to go to find who you seek.’ Sabiq raised the falcon up, brought it close and whispered in its ear. With a sound like flapping leather, the bird called Qamar left his master’s arm and took to the air. All of us, even Benito, watched its passage as it wheeled, bobbed and soared into the blue sky, into the sun and disappeared out of sight.

‘You will stay and eat’ said the Berber. ‘I have good food. Better than mice’ and he smiled broadly.

Khaled explored what remained of the local markets, to secure any provisions he could. Sabiq the Berber directed me to a nearby well, where I took Benito and insisted he clean himself, as the stench now curling from him was almost unbearable. Yet he was strangely coy, and would only wash if he could take a bucket into a deserted hovel and perform his ablutions in isolation. Later we sat and ate, save for Benito, who slept. The food was indeed good: meat, flatbreads, a thick bean pottage, fruits and wine. It was peaceful, save for the occasional squawk from the birds.

‘The message you attached to the bird – what did it contain?’ I asked Khaled.

‘It was a request, to Melchisedek Tob, for help. I told him where we would be tonight. If he was able to reach us in time, he should meet us there.’

‘Will he come?’

‘I do not know Christian. No-one knows the mind of the Jew of the Sun. No-one can compel him to do something he does not want to do. He will use his wisdom, consult with others, and determine if we are worthy of his attention.’

‘And without his help? What then?’

Khaled looked grim. ‘Then I fear for the success of your mission.’

Benito, who was still asleep on a rug, began to groan and mumble. He rolled back and forth, silently mouthing unrecognisable words. Beads of sweat began to break out across his forehead. Soon, his long mousy hair and shirt became drenched in moisture. I moved towards him and felt his brow. ‘He sweats like he has a fever, yet he is deathly cold.’

Khaled approached and laid his hands onto the hermit’s chest. ‘His heart beats too fast. His lips grow pale…’

‘Is he possessed?’ Asked the Berber.

Before anyone could answer, Benito began to growl through parched lips. The wordless growl became a low hiss, a strange otherworldly sibilance. Between us we exchanged fearful looks.

Benito continued to writhe, off the rug and into the dust. But the spasms were not violent, more the exaggerated movements of natural sleep. We continued to watch him and finally they faded entirely and he lay on his back, still. The sweating ceased and his shallow breathing became deep and regular.

‘He is well again’ said Khaled.

But he was not. In his sleep Benito uttered a long deep unnatural hiss, as though expelling poisoned breath. Then he began to sing, in a tuneless, absent-minded and almost drunken fashion: ‘tý leti za yasným sontsem vsled i boitsu na dalnem pogranyitshi ot Petrov pyeredai privyet.’ I had not heard such speech before, and it chilled me.

The colour must have drained from my face. Khaled could see the fear in my eyes. I glanced at him, and back at Benito’s recumbent body. The hermit roused then, opened his eyes and looked about, momentarily confused. Pulling himself upright he looked at me and grabbed my arm.

‘I had a dream’ he said excitedly. ‘But it was meant for you.’

I said nothing.

‘ were in a dense forest’ he continued, ‘with a goat. You followed the goat. It led you to the centre of the forest, where there was a high wall. You could not see beyond it, and you could not draw near to it. Something held you back. You followed the line of the wall and came to a gate. Now you could see what was beyond – a blasted landscape. Everything was without life. Trees, grass, all creatures – burned to ash. At the gate was a wolf, but deformed. Its teeth were bared, it limped along the ground. It wore a golden crown. With long claws, horribly twisted, it tried to open the gate. And it wailed and called to the other wolves of the forest for help. It was a terrible sound – evil. You had a bow and fired three arrows at it, but each arrow missed. You knew that the gate must not be opened. The wolf must be killed. But you could not kill it. The gate was opened. You failed. Then you hid from the wolf, and fled, and wept amongst the trees. And through the gates a storm rushed in; all was smitten and turned to fire.’

‘I do not understand’ I replied, feeling the weight of this strange omen upon me. ‘What does it mean?’

‘You have a longbow?’ asked Benito. I nodded. ‘Then use it! Use it and practice it. Practice, practice, as hard as you can. Come the day – and it will come - you must not miss. You must kill the wolf or everything is lost. Everything!’ He squeezed my arm harder.

Khaled stood up, smoothed the dust from his black breeches and snorted in derision. ‘Madness. These ramblings spring from a fevered mind. My mind is clear on the matter – this hermit is in league with the Djinn. Allah does not speak in riddles; you must not trust this man.’

‘Do not take these visions in vain’ spat Benito. ‘They come from our Lord Jesus Christ, not your false god!’ He turned to me in appeal and said, ‘Sir Knight, do not allow the infidel to cloud your judgement. I have had these visions many times. I know which are true and which not – I can interpret them. This vision has sprung from Christ’s will. It is a message, a true message, delivered to you through me. I – who am nothing but a vessel. Do not spurn God’s command, or those of his servants.’

Khaled cast him a dark look. I sighed deeply, caring not for this type of conflict. My mind was full of more pressing concerns. But I felt vulnerable and afraid and was inclined to believe the hermit, whether that belief was born of superstition or a deeper need.

With head lowered, I collected our provisions and packed them away. ‘I am sorry Khaled’ I said with sombre finality, ‘but I cannot abandon Benito; the hermit comes with us, for now at least.’

CHAPTER 26

By late afternoon we had reached our destination – a long, low hill, stepped on one side with terraces from years of agriculture, but now abandoned. It was still peppered with greenery, although what remained of the crop was now parched. The other side was laced with olive groves and small clumps of lemon trees. We rode to the hilltop, dismounted and waited beneath the shade of an acacia tree. Benito, strangely jubilant that he was accompanying us, prattled constantly like a child throughout the journey. Where were we going? Why were we going there? Who were we to meet? What would happen then? I ignored his inanities, as did Khaled, who was grm and silent.

We sat for some time. I did not know what to look for, or what to expect when Melchisedek Tob revealed himself. In truth, I began to doubt the veracity of Khaled’s claims and the wisdom of his advice. But the heathen sat upright, his back to us, keenly surveying the patchwork of dry fields below us. When the weary sun hung low and burnt in the sky, Khaled suddenly stood up and, shielding his eyes, looked northwest. At first I could see nothing but, slowly and gradually, an amazing sight became apparent. Emerging from the north, in a position at odds with its celestial path, was the moon. It was low in the sky, but white, and its curvature reflected the setting sun. More strangely, this moon grew larger over time. I could not comprehend what I was seeing, and turned to Khaled for explanation, who continued looking towards the horizon, smiling. The moon grew larger still, and questioning the sureness of my senses, observed that another shape, accompanying the lunar orb, was situated directly beneath it. Benito now scrabbled to his feet, eyes wide, and looked to the heavens. ‘Jesus Christ and all the saints’ he whispered, crossing himself. ‘What is this vision? Is it trickery, or real?’ I realised then that the object was growing because it was moving towards us. I could see it in more detail now; clearly it was not the moon, but what it was I could not begin to imagine, nor to speculate on it origins. The orb was in fact slightly egg-shaped, and slung beneath it was a wooden chest of some description. The upper part was connected to the lower by a mesh of ropes; it reminded me of an inverted thurible, used by the clergy for the distribution of incense at Mass. The apparition grew closer still and I could see that the chest, somehow held aloft by the orb, was very large (its interior I guessed could accommodate at least ten men) and was seven-sided. It was heavily studded, like a church door, and carved with a variety of ornate decoration. Atop the chest were four enormous and exquisitely carved heads – a man, a lion, an ox and an eagle, and in their mouths were the ropes that secured the casket to the orb. In the centre of this composition appeared to be a brasier in which red coals glowed. The orb itself was terrible in its dimensions – I deduced that the cathedral of the Holy Cross at Acre could easily be encompassed within it. It consisted of a patchwork of white fabrics, assembled from what looked like cotton sheets, sails and flags – I even spied a Hospitaller standard amongst the variety of materials. At first I thought that this vision had a divine provenance, that it was a vehicle descended from Heaven to transport the Angelic host. Now though, I realised that its origins were more mundane. This bizarre and fearsome contraption, which all this time had been growing nearer and nearer, and sinking lower to us, was the abode of Melchisedek Tob.

Stricken with terror, Benito lay trembling in the dust, his arms covering his head. Khaled looked towards me and said nervously, ‘prepare yourself. When the signal is given we will need to move with haste.’ As he spoke a hatch opened in the casket high above us and a rope ladder unfurled; it impacted the ground and whipped the dust, thrashing through scrub and bushes at a sickeningly fast pace.

I went to Benito and knelt beside him. ‘Come my friend’ I said soothingly. ‘We must make ready to leave.’

‘No’ he whimpered, ‘never. I will have no truck with this devilry. The Jew is Satan’s puppet – he has trampled on Nature’s laws. It is God’s will that birds and angels inhabit the sky, not men; not Jews.’ He looked up as the towering orb sped towards us and cried. ‘I would die before I go into that diabolic machi.’

‘You must come now, before it is too late!’ yelled Khaled.

I looked at Benito in frustration. Whatever fears he had, I felt them too – but his cowardice made me want to strike him. ‘Hell’s teeth! Then stay here with the horses. Benito, do you understand? Follow us with the horses. Follow the orb.’ He did not seem to hear. I shook him hard. ‘Do you understand? You will take the horses and follow us! Yes?’ His face etched with terror, Benito nodded.

‘Come on!’ shouted Khaled.

I jumped up and ran towards the Muslim, who was watching the approaching path of the rope ladder. With precise timing we would need to grab it as it swept by and climb to the casket above. Khaled’s urgency suggested that this would be our only chance to converse with the mysterious Jew; we would not get another. The rope lashed and thrashed towards us like a frenzied dust storm. Khaled ran and grabbed it as though mounting a bucking stallion. In the blink of an eye I too had managed to grapple the ladder with both hands, though it passed at such a pace I wondered if my arms would be pulled from their sockets. The orb began to lift skywards and I fumbled to secure my feet in the twisting rungs. I looked up; above me Khaled was forging ahead with his ascent, confidently looping one foot over another. I was not so sure-footed. We were already higher than the tallest church tower and to look down prompted a sudden burst of nausea and trembling of the limbs. With heart pumping and teeth chattering I summoned the resolve I needed to climb, albeit slowly. I was now just below the lip of the entrance to the casket above. About me was all manner of equipment fastened to the casket’s underside: tools, weapons, sacks, bags and utensils. I reached up towards the penultimate rung when I realised suddenly that I was in the path of a swinging leather sack, its motion buffeted by the strong winds. It slammed into my side and, winded from the blow, I missed the rung. Fumbling in panic I screamed for help and Khaled, who was already inside, leaned out into the sky and grabbed my flailing arm. He heaved, hauling me within and I lay on the floor of the casket, sweating and gasping. I rolled towards the hatch and peered outside. We were amongst the birds, and I gained a full realisation of our predicament: only the wooden walls of the casket, and whatever magic was keeping us aloft, separated us from the elements, not to mention a dreadful fall to certain death. I was terrified and vomited into the air. Below us I saw who I presumed was Benito with our three horses. I hoped my excreta would not catch him as it fell to Earth.

‘By our Lady’ I gasped. ‘Is this a casket or a coffin?’

Standing before me was a tall, elderly man, dressed in long but simple robes – the traditional dress of any rabbi, save for the tiny bells sewn around the hem of his skirt. A small potbelly spilled over his belt; his limbs were long, his fingers thin and restless. There was little hair on his head save for a few wisps of soft down, although his beard was full and wiry. His piercing eyes, sparkling with amusement, were framed by a round, kindly face. The nose was bulbous, but his cheeks were shiny and fulsome and, overall, he radiated an air of quiet benevolence. When he spoke his voice was deep and resonant, but also melodic and full of life.

‘And you are Alaric of Samarkand?’ He remarked, his watery eyes glittering.

I nodded. ‘Yes. You are Melchisedek Tob, the Jew of the Sun?’

‘Rabbi Melchisedek Tob, if you please’ he replied. ‘Or even Rav Ha-Hasid. But otherwise yes, I am he. Your being here now is a test, a lesson, as are all things in life. And by being here you have shown endurance and courage.’ He reached for a cup and poured from a silver jug. ‘But I wonder, Alaric of Samarkand, whether you have shown righteousness, or compassion in your recent years? I think you will one day display these virtues – perhaps sooner than you think, but your path will be difficult and fraught. It will be harder for you than for most, but you will be all the richer for it.’ He passed me the cup. ‘Yes, you will shine brighter than many others. Take this my son, and drink.’

I did so and looked about me, confused by his comments. This place was very much a home, and, as I surveyed the interior, became keenly aware that we were a strange and inharmonious presence within it. Every surface within this wooden casket was littered with objects, mainly scrolls and bound texts. A series of astronomical charts and arcane maps covered one wall, next to which a fine astrolabe hung; on another wall were shelves housing row upon row of small bottles and vessels. My eyes passed over cooking utensils, cups and wooden plates, which were secured against wooden panels. I saw scrolls, parchments and bound volumes of every possible size. A strange shrouded object was fixed to a plinth at one side of the casket while elsewhere a narrow table was covered with documents, candles and a variety of measuring instruments. At the opposite side an ornate embroidered curtain protected a small ark, the Holy cabinet in which the Jew’s Torah scrolls were housed. A sleeping mat lay slung beneath a shelf; the floor was spread with rugs and the occasional cushion. From the ceiling hung all manner of lanterns, incense burners, charms, amulets and talismans. And on a perch, gently swinging, sat Qamar the falcon.

CHAPTER 27

‘The bird!’ I exclaimed. ‘It belongs to the Berber at Saffiriyah.’

‘You are partially correct’ replied the Rabbi, grunting and lowering himself onto a cushion. ‘It is certainly the same creature, but the falcon belongs to me. In fact, even that statement is not entirely correct. What I should say is: Qamar chooses to perform tasks on my behalf, if it should suit him to do so, but he is free to come and go as he pleases. Sabiq-al-Raqqah is a trusted friend and Qamar was loaned to him for precisely the reason that Khaled chose – to locate my whereabouts. No man, no creature that lives and breathes in this realm – save this bird – could find me. Even then, only the enlightened few, such as Khaled and his brethren, know the correct procedure for communication with me.’

He turned to Khaled, who was sitting quietly nearby. ‘Tell me young Nizari, what news of your master, Tarus bi-Ahkam Allah? The discourses he and I once enjoyed are fondly remembered, and I lament their passing. Is he well?’

Khaled nodded. ‘When last I saw the Shaikh he was full of life. Indeed, he was more infused with devotion and purpose than at any other time I can remember. There was a divine fire in his belly and a zealous light in his eyes. But that was some time ago, before he dispersed us murids to do his bidding. If Allah wills it, he is as well now as then.’

I was incredulous. This rabbi and the heathen were bantering like old friends. How could this be? Did their respective faiths and cultures not ensure enmity between them? Nevertheless, I said nothing on the subject of the Mahdi’s death – murdered, by my hand.

Melchisedek Tob turned to me and smiled in a manner that almost masked what I perceived as condescension. ‘You look surprised that Musilm and Jew could form a bond. Only the ignorant man builds his relationships on the beliefs of others’ he replied. ‘There is more than one path to redemption, more than one passage to righteousness. The intellect counts for much; blind faith counts for very little. Those few of us who keep knowledge and wisdom in high regard understand the need for communion. No man is an island; not even me, though I may seem it to others.’

My face must have been a mask of suspicion, because the rabbi then sighed, smiled as though to himself, and looked at me with his open, direct eyes. I certainly felt vulnerable at that moment, unnaturally suspended high up in the firmament with two strangers who seemed to have a bond I was not aware of, and who also seemed to possess a conspiratorial friendship.

The rabbi straightened his back and spoke. ‘Alaric my friend – and you are that I assure you – there is much I know about this world, and yet much I do not. I know some things about you, because that is one of my talents – to uncover that which is hidden. And you have been hidden for many years now. In fact, many of us did not know you existed; many of us did not know you even needed to exist! Yet here you are now, in a world troubled by strife and conflict and division. There is worse to come, you can be sure of it, but you can help to ensure that, eventually, this sick world of ours is healed. That is why you are of interest to me, because I have devoted years to such an endeavour. I can be of help to you now. I can offer you advice, guidance and wisdom. And maybe more, should you need it. So do not fear me, or Khaled. All of us here, and many others, are striving for the same ends.’

The rabbi’s words were soothing to a point, and certainly heartfelt, but to me they carried no meaning. What was he talking about? Why must the world be healed, and why should I do it? A surge of frustration welled up inside of me.

‘I appreciate your sentiments rabbi’ I replied, ‘but I fear my mistrust is born of confusion. My only goal is to find my father. Yet, in the last few days, I have received intimations that my quest is bound to a deeper purpose.’

The rabbi frowned. ‘These intimations – you are referring to your meeting with Khaled, your encounter with the Petrovingians and the words of your Templar Grand Master, not to mention the mystery surrounding you father’s disappearance.’

I nodded, though perplexed by the extent to which Melchisedek knew all this.

‘At this moment’ he continued, ‘I can offer you no explanation. The plot will unravel itself over the days and even those of us with some foresight will not know the outcome, or understand the implications, until the end. By then the die will have been cast, the pageant enacted, and all our fates will be decided. That is why the decisions you make, the choices you select, must be the product of a pure and harmonious spirit.’

I smiled to myself wryly. My actions had rarely been the product of a pure spirit. But I felt that I could trust this rabbi – there was not one drop of malice in him; his intentions sprung from an untainted source.

‘You must also understand the sacrifices I have made to speak to you both now’ said Melchisedek, now looking sterner. ‘My whole life has been one of devotion, with the purpose of drawing closer to our creator, cleaving to him. For many years I have withdrawn from the daily stream of life, in order that I may pursue hitbodedut – meditation – without any distraction. I have not spoken directly to another man or woman for six years, so absolute has my commitment and immersion been. I have shunned many requests for council, numerous calls for help and advice, yet when Khaled contacted me I knew that you Alaric, of all people, were worthy of my energies. You must understand that to suspend my devotions even for one hour is akin to a baby being wrenched from its mother or a plant pulled from the soil.’ He looked briefly pained and an expression of entreaty, almost of heartache, flashed across his features. He composed himself and continued.

‘For much of my early life I was a trainee scribe at the Jewish community in Safed. The years of painstaking toil were hard, but finally I achieved my goal of copying the Torah, which I still have now. Thereafter I began my rabbinical training and came to associate with the Chaverim, a band of devotees who explored the mysteries of the Kabbalah, which describes the relationship between mankind and God. That knowledge was first bestowed upon the prophet Moses by Ein Sof – one of the many Kabbalistic names ascribed to Him – to God – on Mount Sinai. Only the most righteous and committed of rabbis are able to penetrate the sublime secrets encoded into the Torah. And although woefully imperfect of character, I endeavoured to focus all my powers on a prolonged meditation of the Kabbalistic tree of life and its ten sefirot. These are the vessels that receive the creative emanations from Ein Sof, which cascade down through the worlds until they reach Malkhut, which is this world – the realm of physical manifestation. Over the decades I came to learn how the spirit can ascend and descend the ten sefira, engage with the creatures that reside in the four worlds and draw down the powers of Elohim when necessary. Years ago I distilled all my learning into the Sefer Ha Zohar, or Book of Splendour, which I passed on to a young rabbi known as Moshe de Leon, for further contemplation. By this time I was exhausted, and increasingly frustrated with the petty matters of Talmudic jurisprudence that so obsessed my Jewish brethren. So I forsook all my commitments and instead attempted a fundamental reunion with Ein Sof based on first principles – those encoded in the book of Genesis. Embedded within Genesis are the secrets of creation itself, and it was this knowledge I sought to acquire. Each day of creation corresponds to seven sefira, so I determined that, for each day, I would mediate on its attributes and qualities and meanings for seven years, to the exclusion of all else. The seventh day of creation represents the Sabbath, and for seven years I led a passive life, not working at all and receiving food and gifts from others. I did not use my feet once during that time, sated myself to the point of ruin and grew horribly obese; I developed sores and pustules and became slothful, and selfish. The next seven years represented the sixth day of creation – the bringing forth of man and woman. So I spent that time communing with humankind, learning the machinations of the mind and the heart, and understanding other things such as how kings govern, how products are made, bought and sold; I witnessed the birth of new life and the shedding of a spent onI endured every pleasure, sin and vice that one human could inflict on another. The next seven years I withdrew from humankind and learned the names of every fish that swims and bird that flies. Then I studied the movement of the heavens, the ebb and flow of seasons, and thereafter, learned the names of every plant that grows, and so on. Each group of seven years brought me closer to the beginning of life, the first day of creation and the initial emanation from Ein Sof. You see me here now; six years spent contemplating the second day of creation, when the waters separated to form the oceans and the sky. Thus, I have shed all connections with humankind, with all animals, with plants and trees. I eat once a week and spend all my time in the blissful, solitary state of kavanna. This vehicle, in which you now sit, was assembled according to specifications received directly from the Angelic beings known as Ofanim. Both human science and occult knowledge keep it aloft. Now I commune with the subtle vapours and spirits of the air, striving for yechidah – union with the source of creation – hour-by-hour, day-by-day. My life has achieved a level of purity and simplicity where I can enter and exit the halls of our Lord at will. This small cell’ – he cast an arm about him – ‘is not a prison. It is freedom! Here, amongst the stars, I am ecstatic!’

The rabbi spoke with such passion I felt uncomfortable. I understood little of his tale, yet it was entirely fascinating. On one hand I saw a flash of zeal in his eyes that reminded me of Benito, and I wondered if the rabbi was mad, but it was clear that he was perfectly sane, although possessed of a heightened spiritual state. I felt truly awed by his presence, and suddenly far less concerned that we were suspended in the sky by unknown means.

‘I can understand how our being here would be very difficult for you’ I said.

The rabbi looked delighted and beamed widely. ‘Good, good. I knew you would have an understanding.’ Just as quickly as the smile appeared, a shadow fell across his face. ‘But you had to come here, both of you. The world is not in equilibrium. The sefirot are unbalanced and even Ein Sof will attempt to correct the flow. Many have sensed a great rift in nature, in Malkhut. There are forces at work that would dismember the tree of life, would see its roots shrivel and its fruit turn rotten.’

‘I have something to show you’ I ventured, feeling strangely anxious.

‘Show me’ replied Melchisedek Tob.

I reached into my knapsack, pulled out the two golden stones and placed them before him. In moments his face had darkened even more, to the point of despair. He did not speak.

Finally I asked ‘rabbi, do they mean anything to you?’

‘Yes’ he replied, his voice cracked and weak. ‘Oh yes. I know their meaning perfectly.’

CHAPTER 28

The rabbi’s hand hovered over the golden, burnished stones, which now lay on an ornately patterned rug like a pair of precious eggs. His eyes flred and burned with a strange intensity while his long, bony fingers gently gliding over the stones’ curvature. Finally he picked one up, cradling it in his upturned palm and quietly gauged its weight and mass. His fingers studied the inscription etched deep into the gold, tracing the pattern of letters, and he did the same with the second object. Then he arranged the two stones neatly before him, inscriptions facing upwards, closed his eyes, and began to speak softly, but with intensity, in a tongue I did not recognise. He sat on his haunches, shoulders slumped, followed by the rest of his long torso, which slowly fell forward in supplication. Rocking slightly, he remained like this for some time until finally, he sat upright again and opened his eyes. He looked from Khaled to me and back again, then spoke.

‘I have a theory about how you came by these’ he began, ‘but please tell me in your own words.’

I explained that I had found them secreted into a hiding place in the wall of my father’s cell, at the Templar commandery in Acre. The rabbi looked grave. He seemed to be wrestling with the implications of this.

‘These stones are very ancient’ he said, his voice wavering just above a whisper. ‘They date from the time of the first Temple, built by King Solomon in Jerusalem, within which the Ark of the Covenant was housed, in a sanctuary known as the Holy of Holies.’

Khaled and I glanced at each other in mutual disbelief.

‘My people believe that Jehovah himself resided within the Ark,’ Tob continued. ‘We believe that God Himself accompanied his people and would communicate with them when the need arose. Only the chief rabbi could enter the Holy of Holies and converse with Jehova, and only on one day of the year could he use the real name of God to address the Almighty. The real name of God is represented by the letters YHWH – known as the Tetragrammaton, and is unpronounceable to all save the chief rabbi. The real name was spoken only once, during the Jew’s most sacred festival, known as Yom Kippur, or the Day of Atonement. These days the festival involves much fasting and prayer, but in those ancient times the focus of this solemn event was a ritual involving the sacrifice of two goats.’ Melchisedek, still gazing by the stones, picked one up and studied it most closely.

‘These two solid gold stones are lots, cast by the high priest during the ritual of Yom Kippur to determine the fate of the two animals. On one lot the inscription reads ‘for Adonai’; the other reads ‘for Azazel’. The goat which fate had selected as a sacrifice for Adonai would be slaughtered in the Temple as an offering to God. The other goat would be led out of the Temple and into the wilderness, and then cast over the edge of a ravine to be dashed to pieces on the rocks below. This goat was a sacrifice for Azazel, who was the recipient of the collective sins of the people; their sins were heaped upon the goat, which was in turn sent out from the people into the desert. Thus, by purging themselves of their wrongdoing, they were able to atone for their sinful behaviour. A red cord was tied around the neck of the goat for Azazel. The people would know they had found favour with Adonai if, during the ritual, the cord miraculously turned white.’

I confess that, at the time, it made little sense to me why an ancient Jewish ritual could hold such significance for my father. Why had he gone to such pains to hide these otherwise innocuous, albeit valuable, lots? Another question preyed at my mind: who, or what, was Azazel?

‘This Azazel of whom you speak rabbi’ I began. ‘I have not heard the name before. Who was he?’

Melchisedek looked about him uncomfortably, studying the clutter within his cramped casket. His eyes would not meet mine. I could not tell if he knew the answer and, if he did, whether he was loath to give it. He turned to a bookcase heaving with bound texts and removed one small volume, which he opened and examined briefly, nodding to himself and stroking his ample beard. With his eyes towards the book still, he spoke.

‘It is the obvious question to ask: who is Azazel. The truth is, few men know the answer. Some hermetic writings mention his name, but – ‘

‘No!’ warned a voice whose source I could not determine. It cut the air like a ragged blade.

The rabbi turned, his eyes sparkling with a strange light. ‘Nabis, who speaks only truth. Why do you intercede now? What do you know of this matter?’

The rabbi rose and stepped towards a wooden plinth, attached to the casket wall. An object rested there, but it was covered by an ornate cloth. Melchisedek spoke a Hebrew word and withdrew the shroud, revealing a strange and disturbing sight beneath. Both Khaled and I swore oaths, for before us a sat a male bronze head, severed at the neck and of human dimensions. Its features were strangely angular, but refined and even beautiful. The full lips were turned downwards into a scowl and from beneath a heavy, frowning brow dead eyes gazed vacantly into space. Lustrous curls of long hair, like bronze shavings, cascaded around his face. The head spoke again but its lips did not move.

‘Melchisedel Tob, you must speak no more of the being whose name is Azazel. While there is much to tell, the telling must come from the lips of Arba, and none other.’ The voice was sonorous and compelling. I knew not its source, but did not doubt its authority.

The rabbi looked exceedingly disgruntled and embarrassed. He smoothed his robes in an agitated manner and said ‘Nabis, who speaks only truth; if it is your will that I be silent, then I must obey, as always. But who is the one you call Arba, and how will the boy find him?’

There was a tense pause before the head replied: ‘Arba and his kin have travelled from the East. The one known as Alaric of Samarkand must find them at the temple on the second peak of Mount Hermon, one day hence. They will wait for him there.’

The rabbi nodded. My heart sank. More riddles; more distractions!

‘Nabis, who speaks only truth’ began the rabbi tentatively, ‘is the boy’s sword the third sword? If it is, should I speak to him of it?’

Another pause followed, longer than the last. Finally the head replied. ‘You may name the sword and name its brothers, but no more.’

‘Of course’ said Melchisedek humbly. ‘I thank you for your wisdom.’ He genuflected slightly and cast the shroud back over the severed bronze head.

I must have worn a look of awed frustrati the rabbi turned and sat down beside me. He smiled awkwardly and spoke, echoing my own feelings, ‘I understand if you are disheartened. These strange decrees have no meaning for you; they serve only to confuse. But Nabis must be obeyed, and his words must be trusted. He has knowledge of realms beyond our own and he sees that which we do not.’

I sighed, but knew that it would be unwise to disregard these occult insights.

‘So I must go to Mount Hermon then’ I muttered, draining the dregs from my cup. ‘I know it – it is one of the tallest mountains in the Holy Lands. It lies north of Acre. Can you take us there?’

‘Yes’ replied the rabbi. ‘Although I cannot come with you onto the mountain. It is forbidden for me to touch the earth.’ His gaze drifted to my sword at my side and he said ‘there is something I can tell you about your weapon. Please, remove it from its scabbard.’

I did so, exposing the exquisite blade and double-pointed tip. I looked across at Khaled, who leaned forwards. His gaze met mine and a nervous smile flickered across his features.

CHAPTER 29

‘Your blade’ said Melchisedek Tob, ‘is one of three swords of power.’ He rubbed his hands down his robed thighs. ‘Indeed, my agreeing to an audience with you was based on Khaled’s assertion that you carried this sword. I could barely believe that the third sword was in the sphere of Malkut, and so had to witness it for myself. Before you had even scaled the rope ladder, I could sense the sword and knew that it was the Shalat.’

‘The Shalat?’ I repeated. ‘It has a name?’

‘Of course’ continued the rabbi. ‘It is a sword of power. Each of the three has a name. Khaled suspected it was the Shalat soon after he first met you, and communicated this to me in his note. Now that I am convinced it is the third sword, a terrible realisation is dawning within me of the true scope of the forces now marshalled. A great conflict between Heaven and Earth is about to commence and you, my young friend, are at its centre.’

I almost laughed. Was the rabbi really a sane man? Was this all a fiction, a conspiracy between Melchisedek and Khaled, and maybe even the Templars, to ensnare me? I I was inclined to dismiss these preposterous claims. And yet… Something within stirred and I knew that I had been waiting for this moment for years, ever since the night when this sword spirited itself into my cell at the Constantino estate. All my years of wondering and fantasising about the weapon’s provenance, all the years of smug conceit as I basked in the knowledge that I, above all others, had been chosen to yield it; the years of envy, awe and admiration from friends and strangers alike when I deigned to show them this miraculous artefact, would finally resolve themselves here and now. My so-called destiny would be revealed.

The rabbi spoke. ‘The three swords of power were forged in the sphere of Binar, the realm of spirit, before this world of matter was created. Each sword had a pure and goodly purpose, and a specific destiny. The first was called Shalhebeth, and was wielded by the Archangel Michael, who used the weapon to vanquish Abaddon and his rebel angels. The second was called Damocles, and was wielded by the Cherubim, who guarded the gates of Eden and the route to the sacred Tree of Life. The third Heaven-forged weapon was named Shalat and it is the same weapon which you now hold in your hands.’

Could it possibly be true, that this weapon was of divine providence? If I knew less about the rabbi I would, at that moment, have thought him a lunatic. Yet I believed him, for it explained much about the sword and its qualities. My hands began to shake. I stared down at the prone blade and for the first time sensed its true essence and supernatural origins. If a man was ever to feel unworthy, it was I at that moment. The sword moaned briefly then, as though imbued with the very life-stuff of the universe; it was as if intelligence had been folded into the metal during its forging by the celestial smiths.

I was suddenly compelled to drop the sword known as Shalat; something in me could not bear to hold its naked blade any longer. I let it cascade from my grasp and roll to the wooden floor. I slid away from it, feeling weak and nauseous.

The rabbi looked serious and concerned. ‘In being made aware of its true origins, you have also been exposed to its purity. You, Alaric of Samarkand, are a corrupt, wanton and sinful being, unfit to wield a relic of such radiance. And yet it has been given to you. You must learn to wield it. Only through your actions, only by achieving balance and harmony, can you do this.’

‘Wh-what is its purpose?’ I asked weakly. ‘What must I do with it?’

‘This is something only Arba can tell you’ replied Melchisedek. ‘I have said too much already. Do not ask me “who is Arba”, for I cannot tell you. Nabis only reveals that which is needed. But it is wise to heed his advice. I will take you close to Mount Hermon, and I pray that there your true destiny will be revealed.’

The rabbi insisted we eat some of his meagre rations, although I was not hungry. He then excused himself and retired to a corner, where he performed various silent subjugations and rituals. Khaled drew a cushion to him and immediately fell into a deep sleep – the first time I had seen him able to succumb to slumber since we first met. His face looked calm and peaceful. I turned and peered gingerly down through the floor hatch to the distant world below. Amidst the rolling hills and scrub I could just make out Benito and our horses, no bigger than ants, ambling gently through the landscape. The sun was setting, giving way to a bright, waxing moon. I would never be able to feel comfortable so far from the firm soil beneath my feet. But as I was suspended amongst the stars, I decided to make the most of my vantage point and gazed out at the spectacle around me. It caused a dizzy combination of intense fear and awe; the moon seemed much nearer, almost as though we were above it and could sail towards it, then explore its strange lunar secrets, or visit the hermit who lived there. The stars were as bright as candles, and far more numerous than when viewed from the ground. If each star represented an angel, then heaven was far more populous than Earth could ever be. I wondered if we would be visited by a curious angelic being, or a sprite of the air, and suddenly grew fearful. Then I panicked that God was displeased with us since we were removed from our natural abode; we were now trespassing within His domain and I prayed that he would not strike us down. In so doing I must have drifted into asleep, fo when I roused next the sun illuminated the landscape far beneath us. I peered out through the trapdoor and saw Benito far below us; he must have followed us throughout the night. And he was not alone; I observed that he was now surrounded by five horsemen. I had to rub my eyes and squint in order to see exactly what was happening, but it was clear that he was now accompanied by other riders on horseback, although I could not tell their standard or markings.

Melchisedek Tob was awake also, engrossed in one of many scrolls scattered across his table. Khaled was still asleep, so I thought it fair to leave him a while longer. I spoke to the rabbi briefly and we agreed that he should begin a descent. I remained watching Benito and his strange companions through the floor hatch, entranced by the manner in which, slowly but surely, their dimensions increased as the rabbi’s airborne ship grew closer to Earth. Khaled finally roused, looking considerably refreshed, and now joined me in observing our descent. Benito and the horsemen were now clearly visible; the latter armoured and wearing pale blue surcoats, as though sporting the livery of a military order. And yet I could not identify them – they were neither Templars nor Hospitallers; nor even Teutonic Knights or warrior-monks from the leper order of St Lazarus. Then I recalled the blue tunic and strange insignia of the corpse I had previously discovered. Not given to trust, I drew my bow and fired a warning shot in their direction. The arrow arced over their heads, but it was enough for the riders to look up towards us, then wheel their horses and gallop away at speed, churning billows of dust in their wake. I unfurled the rabbi’s rope ladder and, standing up, turned towards him.

‘Rabbi Melchisedek Tob, I do not know how to thank you for your wisdom and counsel. Since I acquired my sword – the Shalat – I have had many questions, and more still since my father’s disappearance. You have answered some of them, and I am grateful for it. Yet I remain unsure of my quest and confused by my destiny. But I will reflect on all that you have said.’

The rabbi smiled and nodded. ‘I am not a soothsayer Alaric; I do not know your fate. But I do know that you will not be doomed to an uneventful life.’ He laughed out loud and grabbed my arm. ‘Farewell my son. You sought me out on this occasion. In future, I may need to seek you. But I am certain we will meet again.’

I watched from the floor hatch, my legs dangling in the air beneath us, as Khaled and the rabbi exchanged a few parting words. Looking down I saw the ground, still far below, racing past at the speed of a galloping palfrey. My legs, once again, turned to boneless lumps of meat and my stomach revolved like a butter churn. Slowly, awkwardly, I descended the ladder and carefully placed one foot beneath the other, gulping shallow breaths through a dry mouth. The only method for leaving the speeding, thrashing rope ladder was to jump. I tried to aim for an approaching mass of scrub but missed, instead landing hard against dust and stone. Khaled was more fortunate – he jumped into a passing almond tree, rich with foliage, and slid unharmed down its slender trunk. Clutching a heavily bruised shoulder, I staggered towards Benito who, though smiling was still wary of the rabbi’s vast airborne vehicle, which now peeled away from us and returned to its celestial orbit.

‘Who were the five horsemen I spied you with earlier?’ I asked Benito whilst greeting my two horses, Hugo and Awad.

His smile faded immediately, replaced by a sullen scowl. ‘You have the manners of a pig! And you claim knightly blood? Did you not see what I, Benito Velasquez de Fuente Encalato, did for you? Throughout the darkness I galloped with your horses, keeping speed with that ship of Satan. I should not even speak to you now, stained as you are with the corruption of Jewish sorcery. Only the power of the dark one could keep that demonic machine aloft!’

‘Who were those horsemen Benito?’ I demanded, wincing in pain as I attempted to rotate my injured arm.

‘All night I travelled across the desert’ he continued, looking frantically across the flat landscape for anyone who might offer moral support. ‘And this is how you thank me? I rue the day you stole me from my solitude. You are wicked. Sinful. No thanks from you. Politeness – it costs nothing.’

Finally I thanked him for keeping the horses safe, but the stubborn mule of a man refused to speak further until the three of us were mounted again and well on our way north, heading towards Mount Hermon. Eventually, after coaxing Benito into speaking, he told us about his encounter. The riders had approached him at dawn, from the south, and asked for me by name, and my whereabouts. When Benito demanded to know on whose authority they sought me they claimed to be representatives of the Grand Master of the Knights of the Seal of Dudael. The order, they asserted, was powerful, I had perpetrated a terrible crime against them. Their mission was to bring me to justice. Benito told them he had been travelling with me as a prisoner, after I had abducted him from Acre, and that I had found new horses, abandoned him and fled west, towards the coast. On seeing Melchisedek Tob’s sky boat they began to doubt his story until the arrow, shot from my bow, caused them to flee.

‘Are you sure that was all you told them?’ I asked. ‘You are sure you told them I had fled west – nothing more?’

‘Of course’ he replied. ‘I am not stupid. And I know that deep down you are a good man. Those knights may have killed you. I had to send them away. So I save your life, if you like.’ He beamed at me conspiratorially.

I frowned at him ‘This is very serious Benito’ I continued. ‘I have never heard of an order called the Knights of the Seal of Dudael. Whatever they told you, they are not to be trusted.’

Benito nodded unconvincingly. Khaled looked furious; it was clear he did not believe one word of Benito’s story.

‘If these men knew where we were destined’ I said with all seriousness, ‘we could be in extreme danger.’

The hermit said nothing, suddenly absorbed in some kind of private reverie. Then he looked up and asked brightly ‘and what is our objective?’

‘Mount Hermon’ I replied, ‘and a rendezvous with one called Arba.’

CHAPTER 30

As we travelled further north, the land became more verdant and our spirits were raised. We rode amongst well-tended fields, rich grassland, orchards and olive groves, all of which were watered by the life-giving river Jordan. Roads began to emerge, which were lined with castor plants and willows. And in the distance, rising majestically from the surrounding foothills into the clear blue sky, was the broad, snow-capped mountain known as Hermon. Khaled smiled to see it. He turned to us and said ‘Hermon is a sacred mountain for Muslims. The Arabs call it ‘The Shining One’.’

‘The Muslims and the Jews disagree then,’ commented Benito, ‘for in Hebrew it means ‘forbidden place’.’

Khaled shrugged. It was clear that Benito’s presence was now more than a mere annoyance to him. He regarded the hermit as a fool, a liar and a liability. A day before he may have kept his comments in check, largely for my sake, but now he deliberately stoked Benito’s ire, which was at best erratic. ‘Why should Hermon be considered forbidden?’ he asked, with casual carelessness. ‘After all, is it not the place where Christ chose to reveal himself as a divine prophet, glowing with the righteous light of Allah?’

‘What?’ spluttered Benito suddenly. ‘How would you, a Muslim, know this? Blasphemy! Never speak again of the life of our Lord, for you are His enemy.’ Benito was furious – he had taken Khaled’s bait. ‘You Muslims always twist the gospels and infect the word of God with your subtle lies. This is why you can never be trusted. Islam is a snake in the grass that tempts the souls of weak and idle men.’

I chuckled at this because, in truth, I agreed with the little Spanish hermit.

Khaled remained calm. He rode ahead of Benito, upright and proud, and when he spoke he did not turn to face his accuser. ‘Your words betray you as the fool you truly are’ he said flatly, but with a hint of malice. ‘In truth, Islam is a religion of tolerance. Generations ago Jews, Christians and Muslims lived peacefully together in Jerusalem until your so-called crusaders sacked the Holy City. Those thugs slaughtered men, women and children regardless of creed or faith, and installed a savage rule that persecuted the Muslim for centuries after. Any believer, regardless of faith, can only endure hardship for so long before he calls to his god and begs for justice. And so it was that Muslims, who are permitted to defend their beliefs and freedoms when the need arises, launched Jihad against the Christian occupiers, in order to restore peace and freedom of worship. This war,’ said Khaled firmly, ‘is your doing.’

‘Then I pray that it is a war we shall win’ spat Benito. ‘And we shall win it. Believe that, if nothing else. For our church is strong. It has endured heresies in the past and will endure more in the future. That is all your pathetic faith is – a heresy. One amongst many that must be suppressed through the blessed act of crusade. It is the duty of every Christian to uphold the tenets of its church. And the core tenet – that one kernel of belief that cannot be disputed – is the divinity of our Lord. Yet you… you desert heretics regard Him as a mere prophet. You deny that Jesus is the Son of God, and so these denials, these attempts to warp the sacred Christian orthodoxies, must be crushed. Annihilated!’

Khaled laughed out loud. ‘And what is your Christian faith if not a Jewish heresy? The history of religion is the history of heresy itself. The Muslim Shiite sect to which I belong is itself though of as deviant. Yet the king of France regards our teachings as similar to those of Christians. As sure as the fig tree bears fruit, your religion will bear new heresies, and you will not destroy them before they have planted their seed in the ground. And one day these heresies will grow vigorous and strong, sucking all goodness from the soil. Then your church will finally wither and die, and you will be like dust – scattered and lifeless.’

Benito, rolling around atop Awad, my huge warhorse, seethed with fury. ‘You shall not win. You Muslims are the usurpers of faith’s crown.’

Khaled smiled. ‘I wonder’ he began, ‘whether the Pharisees said the same of Jesus.’

Benito turned to me, his features at once both furious and pleading. ‘How can you, a good Christian, consort with this devil? Run him through now and redeem yourself. Kill him!’

Now Khaled brought his horse alongside Benito and looked towards him, a righteous anger sparkling in his eyes. ‘You Christians are always seeking signs that tell of the world’s end. I tell you now little hermit, it is not the end of the world, but it is the end of your world. Your church is waning; there is no place for it here. The Frankish rule is ended in these lands. The Mameluk Sultan al-Ashraf, though no lord of mine, will drive you Christians into the sea. I pray that he will show you mercy, but you should expect none. Ruthlessness is the vehicle for his victory. He will destroy you. And when you are gone these lands will return to their rightful people, the desert races who have dwelled here for a thousand years. And Islam will rule for another thousand years, or until you Christians can muster a new crusade.’

This silenced Benito, for he knew it to be true. Only Acre stood between total Christian defeat and absolute Muslim dominion in these Holy Lands. In my lifetime alone I had seen the infidel grow stronger and felt Christ’s presence fade. Now, at the end of things, it seemed as though our Lord would pass from the Earth completely, and as surely as the stars follow their celestial path through the heavens, His people would be left behind, abandoned and alone. But I shuddered with loathing to even contemplate the inevitable question that accompanied such a conclusion: could the Muslim God, the Allah of the infidel, be the one true God? I would reflect on such thoughts no longer; better to dash my own brains out than entertain this ultimate heresy.

We spoke no more until camp. Throughout the day we rode, the landscape increasing in fertility as my thoughts grew darker. But there was little sign of habitation. It was as though God had emptied the lands of all human activity. The sun sank towards the horizon, transforming every blade of grass or ear of corn to bright gold; the great expanse of sky was fretted with tiny clouds. Gangs of swallows flew back and forth across our path, while butterflies bobbed around us, venturing from the safety of nearby meadows. Ahead of us I spied a small, deserted hamlet, no more than four or five rough stone houses - some without roofs - and a number of dilapidated outbuildings. Against my better judgement we decided to make camp there for the night; Khaled argued that it would be safer if the glow of our camp fire was hidden within a building, rather than exposed to the night air, where it would be visible for miles.

We reconnoitred the hamlet, which had probably been deserted for years, and settled upon a cottage to the east, overgrown with trees and thick shrubs. An adjacent stable meant we could keep our horses hidden from any unwelcome visitors. The interior still contained a few pots, which were scattered across the dusty floor. It smely and cool. We took the bags from our horses and lit a fire, then unpacked our rations and sleeping mats. Khaled took a variety of packages from his bags and set about making a batch of sweet cakes called hais al-baghdadi, which he fried on the open fire. They were delicious – even Benito ate them with vigour.

Later that night, as bats chirruped in the darkness, Khaled and I played chess. Benito snored loudly as we contemplated the board. Khaled, the superior player, was victorious. I had other things on my mind.

‘You toy with me’ I said, slightly annoyed, and leaned back.

He smiled, and cleaned the board, then took a knight and placed it in a corner square.

‘Have you heard of the Knight’s Tour?’ he asked.

I had not.

‘It is an ancient puzzle’ he said, picking up the chess piece. ‘The purpose is to move this knight from any square on the board to every other square, landing on each square only once. I was taught the solution many years ago by a Persian astrologer.’

Khaled began slowly moving the piece in seemingly random sequences.

‘There are many solutions to the puzzle, some of which reflect alchemical secrets, or reveal mystical patterns. There is even a series of moves which describes the outline of your own Templar cross.’

‘Why would I choose to tackle this puzzle?’ I asked.

‘Because’ replied Khaled, ‘the Knight’s Tour symbolises order, beauty and simplicity. To attempt the Tour is to meditate on these things, and others.’

He handed me the chess piece.

‘And you point is?’ I retorted wearily.

‘That there is much you can learn from it.’ And with that Khaled stood up and stepped out into the night.

I was tired but restless. Khaled returned to collect the strange semi-carved lump of jade he feverishly laboured over every night. Without a word, he stepped back out into the darkness, but I could see that his features were now strained. Whatever it was that tormented his sleep, it was beginning to take its toll. Since we had met, Khaled had slept only once. So little rest was enough to drive most men insane. Yet despite the deep, dark rings under his eyes, by day at least he remained outwardly composed. How much longer this could last for I did not know. The Muslim would not discuss the matter – it was a burden that he too chose to bear in silence.

My own sleep was filled with strange portents and symbols, and I roused often. Khaled remained awake once more, frequently leaving and returning to the cottage. Then something stirred within my dreams and told me I should rouse myself. I awoke and sensed a body in close proximity to mine. Sight followed slowly after and my drowsy eyes took time to discern Benito, in the gloom, bending over me. I saw his thin, round face buried beneath his wild beard and the wiry mass of hair that cascaded over his low, heavy brow; I saw his squat nose and pale, restless eyes; I could hear his ra, shallow breathing and smell his rank odour. One of his thin, calloused hands was in the dust beside my head; the other held a dagger, which was resting against the side of my throat. But then I noticed something else: beneath his own throat was a blade also. My eyes followed the arc of that thin blade and saw it was held by Khaled, who stood over the hermit, eyeing him with absolute disdain. His eyes flicked towards me.

‘Are you hurt?’

‘I- I don’t think so’ I replied, still confused.

In one swift and savage movement Khaled pulled Benito away and threw him into the dust. I stood up and walked over to them both. Khaled’s blade was now at the hermit’s chest. Benito cast his eyes from one of us to the other, looking fearful.

‘He tried to kill you’ said Khaled. ‘I had been patrolling the village. When I returned here I saw this dog creep over to where you slept and lean over as though to slit your throat. I stole up behind him in the dark before he was able to do any real harm.’

‘This is lies!’ spat Benito. ‘My Lord, you must not trust the word of the infidel. Deceit! His wish is to set Christian against Christian. Have faith! Do not trust!’

‘Shut up’ I replied, kicking him hard in the kidneys.

‘What I tell you is true’ said Khaled. ‘I have no reason to lie. The truth is self-evident. You saw the blade against your own neck.’

I drew my sword – the Shalat – and held the two blade points to Benito’s neck, flanking his scrawny Adam’s apple.

‘The truth’ I demanded. ‘Tell me the truth hermit, or I will not hesitate in wasting your ugly little life.’

He hesitated, his mad eyes flicking dizzily from me, to the blade and to Khaled.

‘The truth… the truth’ he mumbled. I pressed the blade points into his wretched throat and drew blood.

Benito gasped. ‘I- I will tell. I will tell the truth’ he stammered. ‘While… while you were in the Jew’s sky ship I was visited by the five riders, the knights of the Seal of Dudael. They spoke to me. They were serious men. Persuasive. But Godly. The said that you were possessed by the Devil and in league with the infidel. Your plan was to destroy the remains of Christianity in Outremer; to wipe out all traces of Christ from these lands. This - this night I dreamed that you were a demon and, mounted upon a cockatrice, you rode into Jerusalem. You slaughtered the Christians and burnt the Temple of the Holy Sepulchre. A voice commanded me to kill you, that it was God’s will. I thought about everything the infidel had said,’ he gestured towards Khaled, ‘about the end of Christian rule in Outremer. I believed the five knights. I believed you were agents of the Dark One, and that you planned to destroy the church. I believed you had to die, and that I must kill you. I am sorry.’ He began to sob and retch, writhing in the dust. ‘I warned you, I have cursed this quest. You must release me, or kill me – because I will bring death to you all.’

I sighed deeply and looked at Khaled, feeling as though a net was closing in about me./font>

‘I do not understand. What should I do?’ I asked simply.

‘Tie him up’ he replied. ‘If not run him through. We must be more careful now than ever before. There are unknown forces that seek your destruction.’ He proffered me a lopsided smile. ‘Sleep some more, if you can. I will take the watch, and I will keep one eye on this scoundrel. Maybe tomorrow will bring better tidings.’

I nodded, sinking to the ground. ‘Aye. better tidings. Or fresh terrors.’

CHAPTER 31

It was dawn when I finally awoke. I looked about me and saw no sign of Khaled or Benito, or any of their possessions. Numbly sensing that something was amiss I hauled myself up and splashed my face with water. Then, stepping out into the morning, I almost collided with a Knight of the Seal of Dudael, who had just passed by; only his obscuring helmet failed to alert him to my presence. I gasped and slipped back into the cottage, unsheathing the Shalat with sharp breaths. My groggy mind attempted to marshal its thoughts and grasp what was happening. How had these men found us? Had Benito lied to me, and told them where we were truly destined? Stealing a look out into the daylight again, I saw six knights, some mounted, moving slowly along the street. Had Khaled and Benito been captured? Had they escaped, or were they now dead? The sun was still low in the sky and a morning mist hung low across the streets and fields beyond. The air was cold and fragile, and all was silent save for the rattle of the knights’ armour. Their horses snorted and billowed plumes of cloud. Four knights were mounted, two walked on foot. All wore bascinets and full armour; their weapons were drawn. My eye tracked them as they followed the dusty path into the middle of the hamlet. It was then that I spied Khaled, perched atop the ramshackle gable roof of a barn, and obscured by overhanging trees. He knelt on the roof’s far side, bow in hand, silently observing the scene. Then he spotted me and gestured for me to stay hidden. The knights were almost level with him, but they had failed to notice his black shape above. Rather, they seemed distracted by something on the other side of the track. A narrow lane led through thicket and scrub to a few farm buildings, and the knights gestured in that direction. I took a step back into the cottage and heard a sound behind. Next, too swift for me to react, a mailed hand grabbed my face. I tasted the tang of armour, of metal rivulets, and heard breathing and grunting beneath a helmet. Whoever he was, he was strong. He wrestled my sword from me and jerked my head to one side, trying to either expose or snap my neck. One of my hands came up to peel his fingers away from me, while I frantically looked down to see his other free hand clasp a dagger. I wrestled with that hand too, but the knight twisted his arm so that the blade sliced across my exposed flesh. I felt warm blood roll down my wrist. I did not shout out, but instead fell forward and brought a boot heel up to strike my assailant hard between the legs. He groaned, buckled, and released his grip. I stepped away from him and turned, looking for my sword; it lay on the floor of the cottage, near the hearth and out of reach. The knight, who wore the blue insignia of the Knights of Dudael, straightened and coughed.

‘Fis a putain, licheor plain d'anvie’ he growled.

It was an insult, which I willt translate here. Instead, I called him a bricon and spat onto his pale blue surcoat. He lunged at me but I weaved aside to his left and ran for the other exit to the rear of the building. I spied two further knights approaching through the bushes. No doubt more were patrolling the other flank across the street. I turned, realising I was nearer my sword now, but the knight had seen this also and manoeuvred himself into my path. I drew my dagger and, stealing a glance at my arm, saw that I was bleeding quite heavily. I winced and the knight chuckled – a throaty rasp from within his great helm. We circled each other and, when my opponent was facing the bright, sun-lit doorway, I lunged at him. The movement was swift, low and towards his left flank. I thrust the dagger point up into the weaker part of his mail hauberk, by the under-arm, and felt the blade pierce one or two chain links, but that was all. Despite this, my sword was now within reach. I leapt towards it and grabbed the hilt as the knight bore down upon me. The Shalat felt light and nimble in my grasp, and I swung it outwards in a wide arc. The curious, double-pointed blade bit deep into the knight, ripping through surcoat, mail hauberk, padding, muscle and bone. He merely sighed as entrails splashed onto the floor like bloody butcher’s towels. The remainder of his body followed, collapsing into a metallic crunch. The other two knights were almost upon me. I ran out onto the street and saw that Khaled was still perched on the roof. The party of knights, who had returned from their visit to the cluster of farm buildings, were moving further along the street. I ran towards them, keeping close to the line of rough buildings. Khaled drew his bow and released a bolt into a mounted knight. The arrow hit his neck with a thud; he fell forward, and then slipped from his saddle into the dust like a sack of grain. The remaining five knights were suddenly roused. Khaled released a second bolt and struck another, this time on foot, through the eyepiece of his great helm. Three more assailants, who must have been flanking the far side of the hamlet, came running to join the fray. Two mounted knights took their long, thin lances to the barn and thrust them up at the roof, towards Khaled. He drew his Japanese blade, the one he called a katana, and side-stepped the thrusting lances. In a blur of movement, he brought his blade down on the lance-shafts, severing the wooden staffs from their pointed tips. Without pause, Khaled skipped down the roof and dropped from the edge of the gable. His blade arm snapped outwards towards a mounted knight, and then he landed in the dust, looking raven-like. He crouched motionless, breathing heavily, eyes surveying his enemy from beneath a knotted brow. In the sudden, brief silence, the mounted knight gurgled and most of his head tumbled from its neck into the dirt. The headless torso, still in its saddle, briefly geysered blood, then the shoulders relaxed slightly and it moved no more. The six knights looked across at each other; their unease was palpable. One of them, speaking in French, ordered them to form a circle and close in on the black-clad Nizari. They each held their sword or mace before them and advanced slowly, enclosing Khaled in an ever-decreasing ring of iron. He did not move. In fact, he seemed to look through them, as though focussing on some point beyond. I realised I had never seen Khaled fight propely before. My heart was racing and I forgot my own safety. I hoped the infidel knew what he was doing. The moment that the circle of knights raised their weapons to strike, Khaled sprung into life. My jaw hung limp as I watched. In smooth, fluid movements he slashed and spun with his thin, curved blade. I recalled how Khaled had called the Japanese approach to warfare a dance of death. What I saw was certainly lethal. In fact, it was a massacre. Maimed men collapsed to the dirt and, before the last had fallen, the Muslim Hashishin impassively wiped his blade and returned it to the scabbard, and then walked towards me.div>

‘Impressive’ I said, nodding at Khaled’s sword.

‘Thankyou Christian’ he replied, mopping the sweat from his brow.

I looked about me. ‘Now, where’s that little bastard Benito?’

Benito appeared then, like an imp summoned by its fell master. He eyes were fearful as he looked around at the scattered corpses.

‘Where have you been?’ I called to him.

‘Sir Knight, I have been hiding. Hiding from this… violence’ he replied, shuffling towards me.

‘There will be more violence presently unless you tell me how these knights found us’ I growled, grabbing the hermit by the scruff of the neck.

He threw me a plaintive but accusing look. ‘I – I cannot say how they knew we would be here. How could I know? But – wait… You think I was responsible for this? You think I betrayed you? Wickedness! Wickedness and lies! I would not do such a thing.’

I pulled him closer and put my mouth to his ear. ‘It seems strange, does it not, that these knights stumble across our camp – in the midst of nowhere – the day after you had dealings with them; the day after they came looking for me.’

Benito’s voice wavered, but he spoke with sincerity. ‘I swear Sir Knight, on the prophets, apostles, martyrs, confessors, virgins, and of all the saints in Heaven, that I told them nothing of your true quest. You must believe poor Benito!’

I pushed him away from me. ‘I wish I could, hermit, but you are proving to be a wellspring of ill fortune.’

‘Kill him’ muttered Khaled. ‘He is riddled with guilt.’

I sighed, and walked towards a corpse, nudging it with my foot. Who were these so-called Knights of The Seal of Dudael, I mused, and what did they want with me?

CHAPTER 32

The three of us were ill tempered and silent as we approached the foot of Mount Hermon. We dismounted near a rocky outcrop, amongst green foothills and near the River Jordan’s bubbling, gushing southern tributary. A thin band of mist lay above the ground, cold and silent. It had trapped the sun, which, unable to break free of its bonds, shone weak and sickly in the pale sky. Khaled sought a quiet place to pray; he was a silent, prostrate figure in silhouette. And across the camp, despite the bindings on his hands and feet, Benito was kneeling, deep in prayer also. I wondered then which God was listening to this pair of supplicants. Was one god listening to both? Was there even a god to hear either of their entreaties, or were their devotions merely destined for the moon and the stars?

I spat and left them both to climb down the crumbling escarpment, which led to a copse and, beyond that, a sheer rock face. As I approached I heard the roar of water and, growing nearer, the trees parted to reveal a high, rocky all, over which clear water tumbled. This was one of the many springs that fed the River Jordan. The water cascaded into a deep pool, and I eagerly slid through the grasses around its shore and slurped cupfuls. Then I simply sat and watched the swift motion of the water, which was cold and pure as ice. My eyes drifted up the rock face, and I saw grottos and sacred niches carved into the walls, hewn reminders of old religions and dead gods. The water’s unceasing hiss with soothing and I must have sat in a reverie for some time. I felt a tap on my shoulder and started. I turned, expecting to see Khaled. Instead I was confronted with a group of around ten men, dressed in long dark brigandines. All wore a bayda helmet, covered in a white turban, and carried axes or javelins. The nearest of the ten, sporting a long pike, beckoned for me to get up. I did so slowly, assessing the threat of this enemy and the risk if I engaged them. Victoruy would be unlikely – these men were thin but wiry and adequately equipped, and a strange, persistent zeal burned in their eyes. With four of them in front and six to my rear, we made our way in silence back to the camp. There I saw both Benito and Khaled surrounded by a further twenty men at arms. I cast Khaled a questing look, but his response was unfathomable. The pike man approached me and spoke, his tone clipped but neutral.

‘You are the one called Alaric?’ he asked.

I nodded.

‘You seek Arba?’

I nodded again.

‘Come with us.’ He turned and made his way towards a narrow path that wound upwards into the mountain. The other men followed and those behind beckoned for us to also begin moving. Benito’s bonds were cut (I remonstrated with our captors about this but to no avail), and our horses were led at the rear by another of these strange, silent warriors. As we walked, no more than two abreast due to the width of the path, the green foothills gave way to rocks and scrub. But the incline was not yet steep, so I skulked towards Khaled until I could converse with him in a low whisper.

‘Who are these people?’ I asked anxiously. ‘Are we their prisoners?’

Khaled did not turn to me, but instead kept his eyes fixed to the floor. ‘I would think they are Druzes, a religious sect even more secretive than my own clan of Nizari Assassins. They believe that a mad Kaliph called El Hakim was the last of ten incarnations of God. Men preached this blasphemy to the mountaineers that already lived here on Mount Hermon and over time a community of Druzes was established. No-one save for a few outsiders are aware of their teachings – for them, secrecy is a pillar of their belief.’

‘So should we fear them?’ I asked. ‘Are they our enemy? Can we trust them to take us to Arba, or should we plan our escape?’

Khaled frowned. ‘I am not sure Christian. On one hand, they know this mountain better than any other. If Arba resides on Mount Hermon, he will be known to the Druzes. On the other hand, both Christians and Muslims are their enemy. They believe that, come the end of the world, an army of Tibetan Druzes will defeat the hordes of both Christ and of Islam.’

‘Who are these Tibetan Druzes?’ I asked. ‘Should we fear them also?’

haled looked up ahead at the silent men walking before him then bent towards me, his voice lower than before. ‘Some of the Druzes trace their order back to Hemsa, the uncle of Mohammed, who went to Tibet in search of secret wisdom. Tibet is a country many weeks travel from here, amongst the kingdom of the Mongols. Some say that Hemsa sought the teachings of a race of immortal giants known as the Sons of Reflected Light. What I do know is that the Druzes have connections with many secretive and powerful clans, and this in turn makes them an unpredictable force. But I do not think we should fear them, at least not just yet. Remain alert though at all times, and respectful. Things could change very swiftly.’

The mist had now dissolved and the sun shone strong and bold overhead. But despite this our breath could be seen before us; regular billows of cloud in the freezing air. Snow and ice now collected amongst the rocks and boulders, and the last vestiges of greenery finally seeped away, giving the landscape over to harsh and unremitting greyness. Life still flourished above us, where scores of birds wheeled and screeched high in the azure sky. Occasionally I spied old, broken huts peppering the rocks and snowfall, the remnants of hermit’s cells from antiquity when men like Benito came to the mountain to seek a lonely idyll. I turned and saw Benito behind me, looking cowed and penitent. It was also apparent that he was feeling the effects of the increasing cold. His thin frame, concealed only by a dirty smock, spasmed violently with every step. Despite his cumbersome attempt to kill me, my heart softened as I watched him. He stumbled over rocks as he walked, one unsteady foot placed awkwardly in front of the other; he looked confused, and detached from the activities around him. He would no doubt freeze to death in time, so unaware was he of his own predicament. In a moment I had turned and made my way towards the back of the line, where my horses were being led. Remarkably, our captors did not attempt to stop me. Indeed, they barely registered that I had broken ranks. I pulled a spare cloak from my saddlebag and took it to Benito, wrapping it about him as he walked. At first no reaction registered on his face, then he snapped out of his reverie and looked at me, and his features slowly creased into a clear, sweet smile.

I walked with him for a time, in silence, helping him when the path grew steep or rugged. Looking around I noticed that the occasional hermit’s hut had been replaced by what looked rough like stone altars, ranging from simple piles of rocks to hewn stone slabs raised up by low, dry-stone columns. Khaled explained that these were heathen temples dedicated to the god Baal. We stopped at that point and rested briefly. I sat, breathless, and looked down. The view was breathtaking. Of Mount Hermon’s three peaks, we were now above the first, below which sprawled the plain of Damascus. My eye traced our path and it was clear that we were being guided towards the second peak, which loomed over us. The Druzes paid us little attention, save when it was time to continue our ascent, and they gestured for us to walk again. The path grew narrow and more precarious, so that we had to walk in single file. The ground fell away from us on one side, while rocks and boulders gathered underfoot. After a time, when the sun had moved from its zenith, we stopped again. By now I was exhausted; I was sheened with sweat and every muscle throbbed with pain. Up here, atop this mountain, there seemed to be less air for us to breathe. Even the Druzes seemed weary; they leant on their javelins, sucking down as much of the thin air as possible.

We set off again and the crest of the second peak finally came into view. It was just above us, reached by a steep, winding path. I squinted and observed wht looked like a mass of ruins at its summit.

‘Do you see those ruins before us?’ I asked Khaled, for the Druzes did not object to our conversing.

He nodded in reply. ‘They are the remains of an ancient dwelling, the abode of a demon known as Asmodeus. He was enslaved by King Solomon’s sorcery, and commanded to build a temple according to measurements determined by God himself. Later this place became a temple to Baal. Idolatry and human sacrifice were commonplace. Evil has made its home here since the earliest of days.’

‘And that place seems to be our destination now’ I said.

‘It is’ spoke a voice from behind me. I turned and, startled, saw a Druze warrior observing me. He spoke again.

‘It is the crown on Jebel-esh-Sheikh.’ His eyes burned with a furious fire. ‘Life and death and knowledge reside there. It is the most hallowed place on this earth.’

I looked quickly away. His words chilled me more than the air.

CHAPTER 33

We approached the summit now, which was surrounded by a high stone wall, still intact after many centuries. We followed a path around the wall’s circumference, looking for an entrance. It was then that I became aware of the sound amongst our surroundings, or rather the lack of it. The birds above us had fled, leaving an unnatural silence in their wake. Indeed, the whole of nature seemed to have recoiled from the place; now only a void remained, to be filled by the harsh grinding of our footfalls. The Druzes stopped suddenly and their leader beckoned Benito, Khaled and me forwards. Three of his men stood by him and, when we drew near, they turned and escorted us towards a gap in the wall marked by a great stone lintel that spanned the entrance. The Druzes urged us through it towards the ruins beyond; they were nothing more than large blocks of hewn stone, piled and scattered amongst the rocks, all form now lost. But it was not the ancient stones that made my legs buckle and heart pound like a madman; rather it was those that stood within the ruins, amongst the rubble. There were at least forty of them, some male, others female, watching us impassively, but with a relaxed and haughty air. They were all so exquisitely beautiful that I gasped, the breath sticking in my throat. All were clad in the finest raiment conceivable: tall, soft boots, long coloured robes of embroidered silk, dark polished corselets and finely patterned brigandines; some wore hooded cloaks or pieces of lacquered armour, others held tall, finely-wrought pikes and javelins, the tips of which were clustered with long, slender blades. I could barely look upon their faces, so sublime were they; but I saw that nearly all possessed long, straight black hair which fell, loose or bound in complex plaits, to their waists. Their skin was pale and their features were restrained, almost feminine, but perfect in every way. Some wore rings in their ears, others sported dark painted lines under their eyes; still others wore brooches, amulets, bracelets, pendants and all manner of the finest jewellery. But what unsettled me most was their height; these creatures stood at least four heads taller than any man.

Stupefied, I glanced at Khaled. His face was a mask, torn between shock and fear. Benito’s fragile mind had deserted him; he lay amongst the snow and rocks, writhing and whimpering in abject terror. A Druze guard, looking almost as awe-struck as us, pulled Benito to his knees; another pushed Khaled to the ground.

‘Kneel before the Lords of the Earth’ spoke the Druze sergeant, his voice quivering but defiant.

The Druze guard genuflected. While the three of us were on our knees, heads bowed, one of the creatures – taller and more refined in appearance than the others - approached. I watched him from under my brow. The light around him seemed to shimmer as he moved – he radiated a terrible authority. Something within told me these creatures were as old and mysterious as the world itself – elder beings that should never have been seen by mortal eyes. Nature seemed to be out of joint around them; they were an inharmonious presence in the natural order; they disdained God’s plan. The creature’s gait was both regal and somehow effete. As it stopped before us, my mind recoiled in panic.

‘So. Two men of blood and one man of God.’ His voice was terrible, like the sound of life and death itself: unfeasibly rich and complex, full of expression and texture and irony. It was the voice of one who had experienced everything, yet valued it all at naught.

A laugh escaped his lips, honeyed and lilting but cold. ‘You are afraid. You have never seen our like before. But you may look at us. Come’, he repeated. ‘Look up.’

We were all wracked with fear. Benito withdrew and buried his head in his hands. Khaled was visibly trembling, yet his head slowly rose to gaze upon the apparition. I did the same, although every muscle and fibre of my being seemed to will me against it.

The creature looked down upon us, and I glanced feebly up. Its terrible eyes held mine in their stare, albeit just for a second, before I looked away again feeling sullied. Those were not the eyes of any mortal man, for instead of one pupil in each eye, there were seven; one at the centre, and six others that rotated around it. They turned in either direction, slow or fast, seemingly with a life of their own. It was an hypnotic dance. One could watch that dance for eternity.

‘In the name of Hell, who are you?’ I whispered, eyes on his boots.

The creature heard me, and I trembled as he approached. My eyes flickered upwards to his waist and I saw him unsheath an ornate, curved dagger. ‘Who are we, or what are we? You ask one, but mean the other.’ His perfect hand casually rocked the dagger blade this way and that. ‘The two questions are quite different.’ He began pacing slowly amongst the thick snow. ‘Before we introduce ourselves, we must be clear on one matter: we know everything about you Alaric of Sarafand. Do not deceive us, for we will recognise your lies. And the lies of men fill us with displeasure.’ I swallowed hard. Every fibre of my being screamed that I should run.

‘Our name is Arba’ he continued. ‘We summoned you here. This is the first time we have met together Alaric, but we have followed your life with interest for many years.’

I could not tell if this was a lie, but the thought of it made me feel wretched; the sins I had committed in that time were numerous.

The creature named Arba called out to one of the Druze guards to our rear. ‘You, come forward.’ His long, gloved hand beckoned the fear-riddled guard towards him and, as though on a leash, the guard began to walk.

‘Now, to address the issue of what we are’ he continued. ‘We have been thought of as many things, and called by many names. In the early days we were the Elioud, the Zamzummim, the Emim, or the Gibborim. To some we have been the Annedoti, the Zoonum, or the Awwim, or Titans. In the east we are Sons of the Reflected Light. In the north, the Jotunheim.

I watched the guard’s feet as he approached the creature and stood before him. I still did not have the resolve to look above his waist, although Arba’s presence was exerting an increasingly magnetic pull on my own eyes. The guard lowered himself into the snow and knelt there as Arba’s boots paced slowly about him.

‘None of these names will mean anything to you’ he said carefully, each word rolling from his lips like a trail of honey. ‘But have you heard, I wonder, of the Repha'im, or Nefilim?’

Benito wailed, for those names must have held meaning for him.

‘For that is what we are’ said Arba, his voice growing louder, filling the thin air. ‘We are the union of fallen angels and womankind from when the world was young. We are the progeny of immortal desire and mortal corruption. We Repha'im, we are spirit and flesh made one, and the cause of all mankind’s depravity!’

His words seemed to explode in my head. I winced and looked to see the guard’s decapitated body collapse sideways into the snow. Benito screamed and clawed at his face. I sat upright and saw Arba, no longer serene and beautiful, now holding a bloodied dagger and spattered with gore.

Grasping the severed head by its hair, he stared towards me, eyes spinning in a furious blaze. ‘This – this is devotion!’ He held the head aloft. ‘Men, women, priests, regents – all have honoured us through the ages. And we have repayed that loyalty with power and riches. Will you Alaric honour us as others have?’

Then he gnawed at the guard’s severed neck. I let his stare meet with mine, looked into the dark vortex of his spinning pupils, and saw madness there.

Benito suddenly scrambled to his feet and ran towards the entrance. In a heartbeat I too was frantically stumbling through the snow. Sheer terror forced me to flee, but we did not make it far. The Druze guards blocked our path; Benito attempted to run through them but they grabbed him and threw him to the ground, then trained their long pikes on him. Another guard pinned me to the floor with the point of his javelin.

Arba’s hysterical laughter echoed through the thin air. ‘You cannot run from us! Where will you run to? Little men of Adam, if only you knew the truth of things, you would bow down and worship us!’

The laughter seemed to unbalance him. He listed sideways then quickly righted himself. ‘Bring this one to us’ called out Arba, using the severed head to point towards Benito.

The guards did so, despite Benito’s frenzied struggling. He refused to look at the creature kns Arba. Stumbling prayers spilled from his lips and he writhed and buckled as Arba grew near.

Arba dropped the severed Druze head into the snow. ‘But it is good that you are afraid of us’ he said, extending a long, slender hand to clasp Benito’s quivering face. ‘You have knowledge of the power we wield, little hermit, and I have knowledge of yours. You think we are mad – and maybe you are right. After all, our fathers have tasted the Heavenly paradise, and been locked out from it. That, surely, is enough to unseat the stoutest minds.’

Benito twisted his head and spat at Arba. ‘You are a devil, a demon!’ he wailed. ‘Lord, protect me from the evil ones; send your guardian angels to vanquish this creature of sin.’

Arba sneered and wiped the spittle from his exquisite garments. ‘Your Lord will do no such thing. He has given us authority in this realm. We are the masters of night and day, earth and sea and air. He pulled Benito’s head back, exposing the scrawny neck beneath, and drew his blade again.

‘No human has dared sully us in seven thousand years’ he exclaimed. ‘This blade will make a red river of you. As you are marked now, so will you be marked for eternity. We will ensure you never offend us again.’

At that moment, as Arba made to open Benito’s throat, I unsheathed my sword. It was a foolish reaction, but I had defended Benito ever since our escape from Acre. He was my hostage then, and now he was my ward.

‘My Lord, please – spare the life of this humble wretch. If it is veneration you seek, then I offer it. I prostrate myself before you willingly.’ I cast the sword aside and knelt in supplication, face pressed into the snow.

Arba released Benito from his grasp, and turned to observe me. His eyes shone with with an inscrutable light. Khaled, who had also been eying Arba with suspicion, now slowly drew his own blade.

‘You, Alaric of Sarafand!’ growled Arba. ‘You, who are not without sin, who are a sinner and a murderer, would dare to parley with us for the life of this fool?’ But as he looked upon me his expression changed, as though all thoughts of retribution had vanished. He smiled broadly then and clasped both hands together, gurgling with delight.

‘We are most pleased to see this’ he trilled. ‘Yes, this is a most welcome sight for us.’

I looked about me, confused.

‘The Shalat. The sword.’

‘The sword?’ I replied. ‘You know of it my Lord?’

‘Of course’, he said. ‘The Repha’im spent many long years attempting to acquire it. It was we who held it for you, for safekeeping. And come the time, it was we who gave the Shalat to you.’

My mind reeled at this revelation. Could it be true that, on the night of my investiture as a knight many years ago, the visitation in Hugh de Constantino’s chapel had been contrived by the creatures that stood before me now?

‘But how?’ I spluttered. ‘And w’

Arba merely smiled enigmatically and turned to Khaled.

‘You may lower your sword, man of Mohammet. It is surely unwise to raise arms against one’s patron.’

Khaled hesitated and frowned. ‘My patron? Please excuse my ignorance Lord, but I do not understand.’

‘Your master and Mahdi is the Shaikh Tarus bi-Ahkam-Allah, yes?’

Khaled brow furrowed again. ‘Lord Arba, I must ask what you know of the Mahdi. None but the members of our own sect know of him and even then, we are rarely in his presence. I myself have not seen him for some years.’

Arba smiled again. ‘That is because, as we desired, you have been tracking the advancing Petrovingian column. You received orders from your Mahdi to follow their army south after they marched into Edessa. Did you not?’

Khaled’s eyes widened.

Arba seemed to enjoy our expressions of disbelief. He chuckled to himself. ‘Aaah. Do not look so perplexed. Yes, we are the patrons of your little sect. We chose to make use of your unique skills and, through various intermediaries, contacted your master Shaik Tarus. You and the rest of your sect have been working for us for some time. This is the most secret of missions, where stealth and cunning are paramount. Which is why you Nizaris are in the employ of the Repha’im. ’

Khaled’s face was a mask of shock. Arba turned from us and beckoned for us to follow.

‘Time is short’ he said, walking towards the main group of Repha’im. ‘And there is much to tell.’

CHAPTER 34

Khaled and I sat down amongst the giants, surrounded by the ruins of the prehistoric mountain-temple, feeling vulnerable and anxious. Benito was still extremely agitated, but now simply rocked quietly where he kneeled. Arba drew close and sat down on a stone block and, as he did so, my sword seemed to spasm. I grasped the hilt and felt a faint surge of energy spiral through my arm. Almost imperceptibly, the Shalat expelled a low moan; it seemed to be straining in its scabbard, yearning to be drawn. I felt that if I had done so, it would seek out Arba and bury its blade in the giant’s unblemished flesh.

Arba saw me reach for it, and smiled wryly. ‘The Shalat seeks it’s quarry. It senses the enemy within us.’

Although I had briefly witnessed the Shalat’s strange sentience before, I did not understand how such a thing could be possible. ‘My Lord, how can a sword – even one as unique as this – yield any intelligence? How can it know when an enemy is near?’

Arba locked me with his irresistible gaze. He spoke carefully. ‘Your fate is about to be revealed Alaric; all your years of confusion are over. The Shalat was forged at the dawn of the world for one purpose: to vanquish an evil and potent enemy. That enemy is named Azazel. The sword responds to our presence because Azazel’s blood courses through our veins. We are his sons. Alaric, it is your destiny to bear the Shalat, to wield it and defeat Azazel, our father.’

My mind reeled. Before I had a chance to respond, Arba continued.

‘You are right to wonder why we have selected you for this most onerous of tasks. And the answer is this: Azazel, my father, has been incarcerated for ten thousand years deep beneath the earth. Your father, as you have already suspected, is not dead. He still lives and breathes, and is located somewhere in the kingdom of Jerusalem. He has a force of loyal Templars at his command, and will shortly be joined by the army of sorcerer-knights known as the Petrovingians. His intention is to free Azazel from his bonds. Why he would do this is unknown to us, although we have our suspicions. Nevertheless, we foresaw this course of events many years ago, and made certain preparations – such as delivering the Shalat to you. It is imperative that your father, brother Ranulph of York, does not bring Azazel back into this world. Whether or not you accept it, this is your fate; the sons inherit the sins of their fathers. Only you Ranulph, through bonds of blood, and as bearer of Azazel’s bain, can prevent his release. This is your duty and your destiny. The order of things, both above and below, insist upon it.’

Arba’s voice was calm but utterly stoic. He spoke without hesitation, as though he had been preparing the words for centuries. All affectation had been stripped away to leave a grave, grim resolve, yet his eyes sparkled with a ferocious fire. I knew then that this was not a dream or a fiction. I had ruminated on my destiny for years, yet never in my most fevered nightmares had I dreamed that it would unfold like this. My father was alive, but he was now, according to Arba, nothing less than my mortal enemy. I felt trapped by Arba’s artifice: I did not want to be complicit in this plan. I had always presumed that my fate would be divinely guided, that it would spring directly from the will of God, rather than the perverse ramblings of this giant devil.

‘My Lord’ I began, a note of bitterness in my voice. ‘You wield more power than all the princes, kings and emperors on this earth, yet you lay this task the feet of a lowly knight. You ask too much of me. How do I even know whether there is truth in what you tell me? You would set son against father, whether yours or my own. This is not a path I choose to follow and while I have breath in my body, by God I will not do it.’

A stubbornness had welled up within me. I felt as though my life as a free soul had been stolen, that even as a youth Arba had callously steered my destiny – one which I had never asked for – in order that I would one day do his bidding. And that day appeared to have arrived. Why should he select me above any other? Why should I even agree to this task? I was not a murderer-for-hire that could be pressed into service at the whim of this creature. If anyone was worthy of suspicion it was Arba, who clearly intended to use me as the agent of his own father’s destruction.

My heart thudded, fearing Arba’s response. But there was no anger in his reply; instead, he smiled wanly. ‘It is… reasonable for you to respond like this. Yet reflect upon recent events; consider all that has happened these last few days. Your soul tells you that it is all true and all connected, just as Khaled guessed.’

My seething mind could not tie these threads together; to me they were a knot of rumours and half-truths. Yet part ew that I was resisting an inescapable fate. Absorbed in thought, I absentmindedly reached into my leather satchel and pulled out the two golden lots, still in their silk pouch. I emptied them into my hand and stared.

Arba sniffed. ‘Yes, we knew your father had acquired these. Those ancient lots were cast during the Jewish ritual of Yom Kippur. One lot was for Yahweh, one for Azazel. They are known as the Urim and Thummim, carried by the high priest and used as tools of divination, for communicating directly with their God.’

I nodded. ‘This much I have been told. I must know more about the man you call Azazel. Who is he? Why is he imprisoned? And why do you wish to see him slain?’

Arba arose and began pacing amongst the ruins. The other Repha’im stood nearby, at ease but still armed.

‘Azazel is no man. You should read the Jewish scriptures boy, for our tale has already been told in of the Book of Enoch. Indeed, the book of Genesis mentions us –’

Benito mumbled a half-remembered passage then, his voice quivering with fear: ‘the Nephilim were on the earth in those days, and also afterward, when the sons of God came in to the daughters of men, and they bore children to them. These were the mighty men that were of old, the men of renown’.

‘That is correct’ continued Arba, smiling strangely – almost with pride. ‘In those days, when the Earth was in its youth, humans were but a tribe of striplings. They inhabited a sacred mountain in the far north, near a place called the Cave of Treasure. That mountain was named Hermon, the same mountain you stand on now. Our fathers were angels – servants of God that dwelt in the higher realms. They looked upon the earth and begged with God to descend to the world of men. In return for dwelling there awhile they promised to sanctify his name. God agreed and allowed them to visit Earth. But angels are creatures of spirit – never before had they encountered the world of physical things. Spirit does not corrupt – it is infinite; but matter decays and dies, just as humans decay and die. So upon entering the world of men the angels were immediately debased, succumbing to earthly mortal desires. Our fathers first descended to earth all those centuries ago upon this very summit, known as Ardis. It is here that they were seduced by the lures of the flesh and lay with human women; we Repha’im are the result of that union.’

Arba cast his hand about him. ‘These ruins you see were built by this young tribe – temples raised to worship our fathers. The angels, known by men as Watchers, imparted all manner of forbidden knowledge to humankind. Amezarak taught how to cast spells and cut roots; Armaros the manufacture of charms, spells, and magical skills; Baraqiel taught astrology; Asradel, the path of the moon; Penemue showed the sons of men the art of flavour – the bitter and the sweet; he taught men how to write with ink and paper; Kasdeyae showed the blows which attack the embryo in the womb so that it miscarries. Lastly Azazel, who was their leader and the most powerful of those angels, taught how to mine the metals of the earth to make swords, daggers, shields and breastplates, bracelets and ornaments. And the art of making up the eyes and beautifying the eyelids. Weapons for men, and weapons for women you might say.’

‘When God saw what had happened, how the Angels had been corrupted and how they, in turn, corrupted men with forbidden knowldge, he unleashed his wrath. He sent Raphael – armed with the sword Shalat - and a horde of archangels to the earth, who vanquished the Watchers and consigned them to the furnace. All of the fallen angels repented, save for Azazel. So God bade Raphael to bind Azazel hand and foot, to heap jagged rocks over him in the dark in a place called the Cave of Dudael, where he now abides until the Last Days. Thus, Azazel’s defiance is remembered in the holy Jewish festival of Yom Kippur – the Day of Atonement. Like all human tribes, the Jews still employed Azazel’s sinful teachings. So they heaped those sins onto a scapegoat and cast it over a desert cliff into a barren place known as God’s Cauldron. There, in the Cave of Dudael, Azazel lies bound and buried deep beneath the earth, tormented with the sins of humankind until the final days of this world, when he is at last released and cast into the fiery pit.’

Arba turned to me and stopped pacing. ‘Alaric, your father intends to summon Azazel now. He will use Petrovingian sorcery to free Azazel and bring him back into the corporeal world.’

CHAPTER 35

Khaled looked up and spoke. ‘Lord Arba, what will happen if Azazel is released?’

Arba looked grave. ‘Azazel is my father, but he is fallen. Angels that have turned against their master are dangerous creatures – the archangel known as Shaitan, or Mastema, rules the entire realm of Hell. His power is second only to God himself. Azazel, though not an archangel, is also powerful. If brought back into the world he would lay waste to it. He would turn the seas to ash and the mountains to lead. The very stars themselves would quiver at his malignancy.’

No-one spoke. The mountain was silent; even the wind had diminished.

Arba continued. ‘This is why we, the Repha’im must prevent it. We have abided on this earth for many thousands of years, living and ruling amongst men. We too wield great power and influence, enjoying the sinful luxuries this world offers. Yet as a race we are doomed. While you enjoy the possibility of salvation, we do not; our spirits are already as rotten as corpses. All that awaits us at the Time of Ending is an eternity of torment in the neverending fires. Yet our physical selves are immortal; while we reside in the world of matter, we cannot die. If Azazel returns to this world and brings about its premature destruction, we Repha’im will be annihilated. The knowledge that we cannot change our fate, that we are destined for the flames regardless of thought or deed, is torment enough. But while the world lives, so do we – and we like this world! We have wealth beyond the dreams of man. We rejoice in the smell of the forests, the warmth of the sun. We will not sacrifice our place here. We will do whetever is required to preserve our legacy, even if it means the death of our own father.’

Arba voice wavered briefly, as though overcome with emotion. He turned and looked out across the mountains to the plains beyond, momentarily lost in his own meditations. Then he returned his attention to us and spoke again, this time his voice taut and harsh.

‘So Alaric. We must insist that you do our bidding. Since our messengers informed us of your father’s plan, we have been busy. But do not forget that we had divined this many moons ago. When you were born, your destiny was writ in the firmament. Eve then we called upon our servants and allies in the heavenly realms, in order to, shall we say, acquire the Shalat – the third sword of power. We knew that it was the only weapon capable of defeating Azazael, and that you must wield it. At the dawn of your investiture as a knight, our minions came to you and delivered the sword unto you.’

‘You stole the sword?’ I exclaimed.

Arba nodded nonchalantly. ‘Yes, exactly. Or rather it was stolen for us, from under the very noses of the Seraphim. No doubt they will want it returned one day. But until that time – or until Azazel is defeated – it is yours to keep.’

I smirked slightly at their audacity. If nothing else it showed how the Repha’im appeared to conduct their business. Their plans were clearly derived from no authority other than their own.

Arba continued. ‘It is clear that your father now knows the true power of your sword, and sees you as a threat to the success of his plans. Do not underestimate the dangers you face; Ranulph has enlisted the aid of those black-hearted sorcerer-knights the Petrovingians to help locate the Cave of Dudael. We now know that their Patriarch – a creature of unfathomable power and evil – has arrived in these lands. This makes your task a thousand times more perilous. Plus your father has troops of his own – he has formed an elite order of Templars from those most loyal to him.’

‘The Knights of the Seal of Dudael’ muttered Khaled. ‘We have encountered them already.’

Arba looked grim. ‘They will stop at nothing to see their plans fulfilled. Alaric, there will be attempts on your life, you can be sure of that. But you must remain resolute despite this. You must not waver.’

I felt sick and hollow. My own father, whom I worshipped, was now prepared to murder his own son. Was I really nothing more to him than a nuisance, an obstruction?

Arba saw my pained expression, but continued. ‘The enemy is now encamped at the Templar monastery of St John, next to the Dead Sea and half a day’s journey from Jerusalem. This is also likely to be close to the Cave of Dudael, where Azazel lies interred. You must travel south and find this camp as soon as possible. Your father will also have dispatched his knights, and the best Petrovingian warriors, to search for you.’

My heart sank even deeper. Outremer was a wilderness riddled with bandits and marauding heathen at the best of times. Now I would be hunted every step of my journey south to Jerusalem, by some of the most vicious and determined warriors in the kingdom.

‘All is not lost’ said Arba, turning to Khaled. ‘The Nizari will help you. Khaled is both wise and resourceful – more than you could possibly imagine. Khaled, we despatched your Mahdi to rendezvous with the Templars and warn the Grand Master of the enemy’s plans. But we have since learned that when the Templars rode out to meet him they were assaulted.’

Khaled nodded. ‘Alaric and I travelled to the scene of that battle. We saw Templar and Petrovingian corpses, as well as a Dudael Knight. One of my own sect – Fakhr ibn al-Hajj – was also amongst the dead. He must have been accompanying my master.’

‘We are sorry for your loss. But at least this means your Mahdi survived the attack, and was safely escorted into Acre.’

Arba threw me a strange look. It was then that panic ran through me like a blade of frozen steel. This confirmed my fear that Khaled’s master, who had been sent by Arba to forewarn the Templars, was the same black-clad figure I had murdered on the streets of Acre. His last words, which seemed like so many ramblings of a man begging for his life, now struck me like lightning: he warned that his death would be a disaster for the Templars and that I was the key to their success. All is indeed now lost, I thought. Even the Templar Commander and Grand Master were not the villains I had presumed they were. I said nothing and stared at the ground, but could feel Arba’s eyes on me like sun through a lens. Khaled, I was sure, knew nothing of my wickedness. But did Arba know that Brother Raynaud and the Mahdi were dead, murdered by my hand? I raised my eyes and met his own. Whatever expression was on his strange, unnatural features, I could not read it.

A shout from another of the Repha’im standing nearby made me turn. We looked across at the lithe, elegant giant who surveyed the landscape like a wolf. In one fluid movement he took a slender javelin and cast it in a trajectory that arced down the mountainside. Moments later we heard a distant scream, and ran to the edge of the temple plateau. A plume of snow and dust from further down the mountain alerted us: a distant figure, with the Repha’im’s javelin embedded deep in its neck, tumbled earthwards.

‘A knight of the Seal of Dudael’ commented the Repha’im. ‘He had been approaching the summit, to eavesdrop on our conversations. We had been observing him for some time.’

At that moment another knight, previously hidden behind rock and scrub, broke cover and began a scrambling descent. The same Repha’im reached for a second javelin, drew it back in a muscular arm and released it into the thin air. Never before had I seen a projectile thrown with such range, or thrown so straight and true, Even from our distant vantage point, we saw the javelin find its target; saw the cloud of blood as the weapon penetrated the knight’s head. We heard a faint groan as the quarry collapsed; he rolled forward briefly, and then lay still in the ice and shingle. A thin trail of dust, buffeted by the wind, rose from his motionless body.

‘Here is proof’ said Arba, gesturing towards those corpses. ‘Your father’s knights have found us. And they have found you. You must leave this place, without delay.’

CHAPTER 36

The other Repha’im, brooding and potent, fanned out to the edge of circular temple. Standing atop its broad and heavy walls they surveyed the landscape for any further signs of activity from the Knights of Dudael.

Arba looked perturbed. ‘We chose to meet with you here, on Mount Hermon, because of the seclusion it offered. But this place is also steeped in meaning and laced with hidden history. Not only is it the location of our father’s descent to earth, it is also the ancient abode of Asmodeus – the demon of the desert who built Solomon’s temple. Only the Petrovingians would know this, and only they would be able to predict our movements.’

He looked up and exhaled. ‘They are indeed powerful sorcerers. But no matter.’ Inexplicably, his mood suddenly darkened and he turned away from us.

‘Come’ he said, wincing, and led us swiftly to a secluded part of the temple. The four of us sat down amongst the debris and watched Arba as his hands, shaking slightly, removed a finely-wrought leather pouch, lined with silk, from beneath his robes. From this he took a small pipe, made from dark wood and intricately inlaid with what looked like ivory. The pipe tapered to a thin mouthpiece at one end; at the other was a fine bronze dragon, coiled around the stem, and clasping a clay bowl. Arba removed this bowl and placed it on a tiny ornate lamp, which ignited as he opened its lid. Lastly, he produced a glass vial, containing amber-coloured crystals, and tapped a quantity of it into the clay bowl.

Arba stared keenly at the powder as it began to dissolve and bubble. ‘This is one of our proudest discoveries. An ancient people, over whom we ruled, were known as the Sumerians. They called it hul gil, which means ‘joy plant.’ It is also known as opium.’

‘The devil’s poppy’ said Benito quietly.

‘Yes’ Arba replied, wincing more keenly now, and gripping his lean stomach. ‘From the early days, we were in need of an anaesthetic, to combat the pain inflicted on us. We scoured the earth to find any plant or flower that could ease our torment and soon concluded that the opium poppy was most effective. But we also carried on our father’s good works and imparted knowledge of the flower to the sons of men, who swiftly developed a taste for this, the sweetest of all balms.’

Arba was now sweating, grasping his guts. He looked gaunt and his strange eyes span erratically. Through gritted teeth he used a metal clasp to transfer the liquid opium to his pipe. Then, like a man gasping for breath, put the pipe to his mouth and inhaled a long, deep draught. Almost immediately he relaxed, closing his eyes and resting his head against a stone column; the opium pipe dangled limply between his quivering fingers.

Moments later Arba opened his eyes again, smiling gently. He fumbled in the small leather pouch and found the vial of opium, which he held up to me. ‘Forgive us our indulgences. Come, you must leave now. Take this’ he said. ‘It is our most precious treasure and it may be of use to you.’

I took it and thanked him. But at that point Arba suddenly clutched his stomach again and lurched forwards, wracked with pain. His tall, slender frame rolled in the dust and snow, his eyes bulged and span crazily. It was awful to see such a noble, graceful figure, regaled in such finery, crawling and wailing along the ground as though eaten from within by cancers.

‘Come’ said Khaled, and pulled me away. I collected my saddlebag and stashed Arba’s gift of opium. The remaining Repha’im stood and watched us as we recovered our horses from the Druze guards. As we made our way towards the temple’s exit, Arba’s wails still audible in the distance, one of the Repha’im came forwards and stood before me.

‘Alaric, son of man. What Arba says is true – there is little more we can do to help you. But we will observe your progress and, if needs be, try our best to come to your aid.’

I nodded. ‘Thank you’ I replied. ‘Will the Lord Arba be well again soon?’

The Repha’im’s eyes span with emotion. ‘Yes. But only for a short time. Long ago Arba commited a great sin against the will of God, and ever since he has been punished for it. Arba’s soul lies imprisoned in Purgatory, tortured daily by the angels that steward that realm. The opium keeps some of his pain at bay but, as with your burden, it is one that he must bear alone.’

We left then, taking careful steps down the mountain track, barely speaking until we reached the foothills of Mount Hermon, and once again heard the playful eddies of the river Jordan and the warm chatter of birdsong.

We rode throughout the day, hugging the terrain and avoiding open countryside as much as possible, skirting villages and shunning well-known routes. As afternoon mellowed into evening, the memories of our encounter with the Repha’im seemed improbable and outlandish. I struggled to come to terms with the experience, which was like the remembrance of a strange and nightmarish dream. Much time was spent trying to make sense of those revelations; it was particularly unsettling that the Repha’im knew so much about me, had been observing me since I was a boy. It was a lop-sided arrangement – they knew everything about me but I knew little about them. My hand went to the sword, the Shalat, by my side. It was the only tangible reminder I had of my mission, and I now wholeheartedly acknowledged its provenance, its purpose and, in turn, my destiny. Yet while my mind leaped from one line of thought to another, I inevitably returned to the question of my father, and his role in this web of secrets. It was a black stain on the map of my life: my father was in league with dark sorcerers, was attempting to unleash a fallen angel into the world and, worst of all, he wished me dead. I could not reconcile any of this with the man I knew. He was a humble Christian. How long had he really been harbouring these wicked secrets? What had happened to him since he last left Acre? I wondered if he had gone mad, or been possessed by an evil spirit. Or had his entire life been a subterfuge? Did a black heart really beat beneath the Templar cross he so proudly wore?

I was curious to hear my companions’ thoughts of our recent encounter. Benito argued that the Repha’im were evil older beings, who had no regard for human life or for God’s will.

‘Yes, they taught mankind the forbidden knowledge, but this made the world a more sinful place. So corrupt was it that man called out to God for help. God sent the archangel Raphael to defeat the Watchers and bind Azazel beneath the earth. And the archangel Uriel was sent to Noah, warning him of an impending flood designed to wash mankind’s corruption from the face of the earth. So you see, the Watchers were responsible for man’s descent into wickedness, and then his destruction in the deluge. In God’s eyes, only Noah was pure of heart and worthy of saving. All other life was destroyed.’

‘So if Watchers and the Repha’im were killed in the flood’ I asked, ‘how did Arba and his kin survive?’

‘This is a good, wise question’ replied Benito. ‘There is no doubt the Repha’im avoided the floodwaters. How can I be sure? Because Sir Knight, the book of Jubilees tells of Noah's grandson, who came upon rock carvings from men of old. It contained the Watchers’ astrological teachings – the obsation of the omens in the sun and moon and all the signs of heaven. And he wrote it down and said nothing about it. Also, in the book of Numbers, it is recounted that Moses sent out spies into the wilderness. On their return they reported seeing the Nephilim, and were like grasshoppers in size against these giants.’

Benito paused and chewed a nail on one of his his bony fingers. ‘Some say a second band of Watchers came to earth after the flood, and fornicated with the human women also. Maybe Arba used sorcery to float above the waters.’ He shrugged. ‘I do not have the answers.’

Khaled had a different view of the Repha’im. He thought they must be good djinn, offspring of the six angels who did not disobey Allah:

‘As I have mentioned, it is said that when Hamsa, the uncle of Mohammet, went to Tibet to seek out the hidden wisdom, he was in fact seeking the Repha’im, who in the east were known as Sons of Reflected Light. Secret writings tell that the Sons spent many years living high in the mountains and teaching the Tao to eight wise men who, in turn, became immortals, or perfected beings. Hamsa learnt alongside these immortals, and the nine eventually united to form a highly secretive and powerful confraternity known as the Brotherhood of Khe-lang. In time Hamsa left the mountains of Tibet to embark on a series of adventures. One of his companions was Yazak the Cathayan – another member of the Brotherhood. Hamsa and Yazak passed the secret wisdom to their own warriors, who became known as the Druzes. Indeed, Hamsa and his army came to blows with certain wicked and evil Repha’im who tried to use their powers for the domination of humans. Hidden writings tell of encounters with a giant known as Tahmasp Anquil, and numerous battles with a Repha’im king called Zumurrud Shah. It is said that there are many such Repha’im, scattered across the Earth and living in secret. The Druzes enjoy a particularly beneficial relationship with their masters. That is why they were able to lead us to Arba; they are guardians of Mount Hermon and protectors of their masters’ hermetic knowledge.’

I wondered just how far the Repha’im’s influence extended; how much had Arba and his ken influenced human history over the thousands of years since the first men and women trod virgin fields? How many Repha’im existed? Was it the forty or so that I had seen on the mountain, or were there hundreds, even thousands more, living at the borders of human communities, no doubt revered as gods or legendary beings? I said as much to Khaled and Benito.

The latter nodded. ‘There are many Watchers, all of who imparted their forbidden knowledge to humankind. Men and women love this knowledge – it gives us power. But it also separates us from God. The door had been closed. So the Repha’im’s.. er, how you say – legacy – is all around us. In the weapons you wear, in the palaces we build. Their knowledge meant we could control this world of matter, to exalt it. But in so doing we turned from God, and replaced our love for Him with the love of trinkets. Yes. This is why I shun such things, and focus on the divine, for only there lies true happiness.’

I sighed. ‘But can I trust them? Or does Arba have hidden goals?’

He shook his head at this. ‘I do not know. They are evil, but there is maybe a sliver of good in them still. They are like children. But also like the oldest of men. On one hand they are wise and powerful; on the other they are helpless.’

Khaled agreed. ‘They are capricious, whimsical creatures, but they are also proud and loyal. You must regard them as allies, at least for now. Who knows what lies beyond today?’

CHAPTER 37

We continued to ride through the deserted landscape, following the empty roads south. I was weary of the debates raging in my head and so pulled alongside Khaled, saying to him: ‘tell me more of this secret sect to which you belong.’

The Muslim looked surprised. ‘Do you not have enough to think on, without my adding to your store of news?’

‘It will be a relief’ I replied. ‘I am sick of my meditations.’

‘Very well. To do my tale justice I would need to return to my childhood. Are you prepared to hear such a story?’

I shrugged and looked about me. ‘I have nothing better to do.’

Khaled nodded his assent and began.

‘Know then that I, Khaled Aziz Al-Khathran, was born into the court of the great Mongol Khan Khubilai, grandson of The Universal Ruler Genghis Khan, at a certain place in the east of the Mongolian empire. The location was a fabulous city of great importance and splendour, known as K’aip’ing, or Shang-tu; it was at the heart of the Khanate of my master, being the seat of his authority and nobility. The city was perfect in every respect, built according to the principles of Chinese geomancy. It was constructed as a square, or rather three squares, inside one another. At the edges and corners of the city were eight Buddhist monasteries; at the very heart was the Palace, decked with jewels and marble. My father, Qasim – Allah preserve him – was the Imperial librarian. He was a noble man of great intelligence. It was only through his wisdom and wit that I was born at all. A son, you see, was the key to his plan for wreaking a terrible revenge against the Great Khan. He was a patient man, and his plot took years to come to fruition. But when it did, he brought the great Khanate of Genghis Khan to its knees.

‘Like me, my father was a Nizari. He was born within the impregnable fortress city of Alamut, high in the Elburz Mountains near the shores of the Caspian Sea. Alamut was not always the Nizaris’ home; many years before then we lived amongst other Muslims, but they did not tolerate our beliefs. The Nizaris were considered heretical by our orthodox Brothers – the Sunni Muslims; battles between the two groups were constant and bloody. The Seldjuk Turks, who were far more numerous and powerful, despised us; to them, the death of a Nizari was as natural and prosaic as rainfall. We were persecuted through pogroms and slaughtered without mercy until our great leader, Hasan i-Sabbah, looked to the mountains as a source of refuge. The tallest peak was crowned with an ancient castle, known as Alamut. Unfortunately, it was occupied at the time by a Seldjuk prince. In order to acquire the fortress for his own, Hasan hatched a plan that in later times would be held up as an exemplar of Nizari stealth; he secreted himself into the castle and slowly, over the years, converted the inhabitants from Sunni beliefs to the Nizari cause. When the prince realised that his denizens were now loyal to Hasan, he handed the castle over – without a mote of resistance! My people climbed the stee track leading to Alamut, installed themselves quickly and began farming the fertile valley near the castle. Thus, the new community was both self-sufficient and secure from enemy attack.

‘I should explain to you, Christian, why the Nizaris were persecuted in the first place. The reasons reach far back to the beginnings of Islam, when our faith was young and immature. Following the death and taking up of the prophet Muhammad – may Allah protect him – a number of groups attempted to wrestle control of Muhammad’s legacy. One of these groups was of the opinion that Muhammad's cousin Ali – and all of his descendents – was divinely selected to inherit Muhammad’s status as Imam; in other words, to become the community’s political and spiritual leader. This sect was known as the Shiites. In contrast, the Sunnis believed that anyone could be selected as Imam, so long as it accorded with the will of the people. The Umayyads were the first of these Sunni devils; they ruled from Damascus and established a dynasty there. In the meantime, the Shiites broke into opposing factions, because none could agree on the legitimate line of descendents from Muhammad. On one hand, some believed there was a line of twelve leaders, the last of which had gone into hiding but would re-appear some point in future. The other faction believed that the legitimate line of descent ended with the seventh Imam – Ismail. What happened to Ismail was a mystery – some thought he had died; others believed he was still alive and had acquired miraculous powers. Whatever happened, he had disappeared and become al-Maktum, or The Hidden One. The Isma’ilis took on the preparations for the return of this future redeemer – the Mahdi – with a new zeal. Isma’ilis regarded the Qur’an as a sequence of coded messages, in the same way that Melchisedek Tob uses Kabbalistic practices to interpret the Torah. In order to understand these hidden meanings an acolyte would need initiation into the seven degrees of knowledge of the Brotherhood. The Isma’ilis were a sect based on secrecy, because the orthodox Sunnis considered their beliefs heretical and so persecuted them. To protect themselves, the Isma’ilis developed a network of specially trained, clandestine missionaries – known as da’is – who sought out new initiates while masquerading as merchants or travellers in towns and cities. It was through these da’is that the roots of the Assassins’ techniques were laid.

‘So. Despite constant persecution, the Isma’ili sect grew over the decades into a dynasty of its own, ruled over by the great Al-Mahdi and eventually based in the city of al-Qahira, or Cairo. One day, a holy man declared Al-Mahdi’s the lost Imam – the Mahdi, or redeemer, for whose coming the Isma’ilis had been in continual preparation. As you can imagine, there was great rejoicing that the Mahdi had been found after so long spent hidden. All was well for some years. Elsewhere, in Persia, the greatest Isma’ili leader – Hasan-I Sabbah, was born. Boy grew into man and of the missionary da’is encouraged him join the Isma’ili Brotherhood, which he did, whereupon his talents were immediately noted and he was despatched to Egypt to complete his training. Thereafter he returned to Persia and delivered his people from Sunni persecution into the safety of the cliff-top fortress of Alamut. Hasan sent his disciples out into the enemies’ towns and cities with orders to assassinate certain individuals. There were many acts of revenge and the Sunni oppressors were terrified. In Cairo Al-Mahdi had died. His eldest son, Nizar, although the legitimate successor to the title of Imam, was the subject of a coup; two tyrants seized control and Nizar was executed. In the minds of the Isma’ili people, to murder a descendent of Muhammad was the most evil and debased of all sins. Like so many others, Hasan-i Sabbah was of the opinion that Nizar was the last rightful Imam, and so led his people in the fight against the usurpers. This new Persian sect was henceforth known as the Nizaris. Thereafter, Hasan-i Sabbah’s rule knew no bounds; he extended the Nizari’s influence from Alamut by building many more Eagle’s Nests, as the mountain fortresses were known, and continued to terrorise their enemies with swift and stealthy assassinations. The reign of fear was unrelenting. It was impossible for anyone to trust even their closest associates and confidantes – a good friend one day could be the righteous avenger who slit your throat the next; the Nizaris had infiltrated to the core of their enemies’ community and, like so many maggots in rotten fruit, gradually destroyed it from within.

‘By the time my father was born, the Nizaris were well established, despite constant attempts by their enemies to wipe them out. Behind the sheer walls of Alamut, a centre for learning and esoteric knowledge had begun to flourish. From a young age my father excelled in all manner of intellectual and spiritual pursuits. As he grew into manhood, he became the obvious candidate for stewardship of our great libraries. And so it was; he sat and pored over the many books, grimoires, holy texts and treatises and, as his knowledge grew, so did his respect and influence. Such was his wisdom that he directly advised many Nizari leaders on all manner of subjects such as astrology, theology, philosophy, ethics and medicine. During his private hours, he indulged in more occult topics. The library was a treasure trove of forbidden knowledge and he devoured the arcane texts from ancient Babylonia, Egypt and Greece. He studied the teachings of the Kabbalists, of Jesus and Bhudda, of the Brahmin and the Celtic priesthood, of Zoroaster and Mani and so, in secret, became most proficient in the sciences of alchemy, herbalism and necromancy.’

I did not want to hear stories of Khaled’s father, for it reminded me of my own father, and of my loss. Instead I questioned the Muslim about the object I had observed him carving on certain nights.

He looked uncomfortable as I mentioned it. Yet his hand reached into his jerkin and removed the same jade disk he had been fashioning since we had first met.

‘It is nothing’ he muttered, stroking its grooves with a thumb. ‘It is merely a sentimental indulgence that reminds me of my past.’

I grunted a confirmation, though I was unsure if I believed him. ‘And will you be awake throughout tonight as you have been each night, save when we were aboard the rabbi’s sky ship?’

He looked at me with cold, still eyes then, and I knew I had said too much. ‘You speak nonsense, Christian. Whatever you saw, it was through a lens of wine and drunkenness.’

I pressed him, although I strove for kindness in my voice. ‘Yet I have seen you, in the darkness, stricken with fear and peering into the night. Every man needs to sleep, even a Muslim. What is it that makes you terrified to do so?’

His face was suddenly lined with tension. ‘I cannot answer your question, so do not ask again. This is my burden.’ With that he trotted on ahead.

I sighed and looked around me at the trees and scrub bathed in the afternoon’s sun. And it was only thenI saw the figures approaching. They were our enemy; my father’s own knights from the Order of the Seal of Dudael. And they had murder in mind.

CHAPTER 38

I do not know how I had failed to notice them earlier; they must have been expert scouts, tracking us since we departed Mount Hermon. But I barely had time to shout a warning to Khaled and Benito before two knights were on me. I leaped from my horse as the first lunged, and I parried his blow. I struck him across the arm, then in the shoulder and again in the neck, hacking down as blood welled behind his chainmail and soaked into his blue surcoat. Behind me I heard the rumble of hooves and stole a glance to see two further men on horseback, one with a lance and one wielding a mace, come charging from a cluster of groves towards Khaled. My second opponent was more challenging. I parried my his attacks, replying where I could, but was anxious about Khaled’s safety. I stole another look. Khaled had also dismounted, sending our horses into the desert for safety. His back was to the knights’ thundering advance. Slowly, he drew his blade, bowed his head, and waited. My own opponent would not be vanquished. The bastard came again. I blocked his attack, pinned his sword to the floor and kicked him backwards. This gave me time to steal another glance. The knights were upon Khaled. At the last possible moment, he dropped to the dirt, swinging left and right as the horses thundered past on either side. There was a pause; I could not tell how the battle had played out. Then one horse keeled over, its rider crushed beneath. The other knight turned and wheeled his mount to the right. For a moment, Khaled did not move. Then he fell forwards, collapsing onto the track.

I yelled out. I had to dispense with my assailant now, and go to Khaled’s aid.

The knight before me laughed, and goaded me with my worst fears. ‘Your friend, the infidel merdaille is dead. And you shall be next.’

The Shalat’s blade sung as a gust of wind blew across the wilderness. I parried the knight as he hacked downwards, then lifted my blade up and back towards his neck. The Shalat sunk in deep and the knight’s head lurched aside, revealing meat and tendon within. His blood still sprayed as I ran from him towards Khaled, who remained prone in the dust. The last remaining knight, who had now dismounted, swung his mace and approached the Muslim. I realised I could not reach them in time, and so called out.

‘No! Leave him. Leave the Muslim. I am the son of Ranulph of York. I’m the one you have come here for.’

The knight turned to look at me, and straightened. At that moment, to his rear, a figure emerged from the undergrowth. It was Benito, wielding a dagger, scuttling towards the knight like a frightened rat. I kept talking, ensuring the knight’s attention was distracted.

‘I know what it is you intend to do’ I continued. ‘I know about Azazel, and the Petrovingians. Leave the Muslim and I will surrender. You can take me to my father. Then he can kill me himself.’

Benito, crouched almost double, padded up to the knight and clumsily, although with some force, plunged the dagger into his thigh. The knight screamed an oath, turned, and struck Benito across the face with a mailed hand. I broke into a sprint as Benito skidded across the ground. There was blood in his mangy beard, and he was shaking from the pain. The knight saw that I was upon him. He swung the mace but I evaded it and brought my sword down onto his shoulder, then skewered him in the gut. He screamed, dropped his weapon and fell to his knees. I went to Benito first.

‘What you did was brave’ I said breathlessly. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘No. I am well.’ He looked at the dagger and proffered it. ‘Khaled gave me this, to protect myself.’ He looked utterly terrified ‘I.. I saw the Muslim fall and I.. I had to help. Not just sit. Not do nothing.’

I nodded and glanced towards Khaled. ‘I must attend to him now.’ The Muslim looked dead. Gingerly I examined his wounds, and saw that the right part of his torso, just below his shoulder, was cut deep and bleeding.

‘Khaled, can you hear me?’ I asked, shaking him gently. There was no reply. I sighed and turned to the Knight of Dudael, who lay writhing in the dust.

‘What do you want with us?’ I demanded. He did not answer so I kicked him hard in the chest. ‘Speak, or your last breaths will be even more painful.’

Still he did not reply. I reached down and tugged at his great helm. When I saw the face beneath I could not believe my eyes.

‘Philippe de Renart!’ I exclaimed. He was a fellow Templar, about my own age. We had fought in many campaigns together over the years.

‘But you should be dead.’ I cast my mind back to the time when, last winter, he had been sent to escort a Christian caravan from Tripoli. According to reports, every last Templar had been wiped out in Saracen ambush.

Philippe coughed and cackled. ‘You fool’ he spat. ‘None of us died in Tripoli. It was a ruse, so that Brother Ranulph could begin building his forces in the south. Half of those Templars you think are dead are very much alive. We did not die in those battles. Instead we fled to Ranulph’s banner, to swell the ranks of the Knights of the Seal of Dudael.’

I was aghast. ‘Why would you do that? The Order of the Temple is the only fraternity of worth. Why lie against the Templars? It is your family. Why deceive the rest of us?’

Philippe winced and turned away. ‘You will learn soon enough’ he muttered.

‘Tell me’ I demanded, and punched his wounded shoulder. He yelled out in pain.

‘You dog Alaric. You would not oppose us if you knew our plans. We are the Saviours of Outremer. The Templars have grown soft over the years. As their wealth has increased, so has their corruption. But there is another order within the Temple. Its rule is noble and pure. The Templars have forgotten their true purpose. You – your gluttony and wickedness – tell of how sinful the order has become.’

I had plenty of questions and was determined that Philippe should answer them all. ‘Why does my father want me dead?’ I asked. Philippe merely coughed and shrugged.

‘Answer me’ I shouted, shaking him by the throat. ‘Where is the Cave of Dudael? Why do you plan to summon Azazel?

Philippe smiled, and blood bubbled from the side of his mouth. ‘You know nothing!’ he wheezed. ‘But we know much about you. The Patriarch sees even that which is hidden. We know you consort with the Jew of the Sun. And we saw you on Mount Hermon, being counselled the Repha’im – traitorous scum that they are.’

He coughed long and hard, and more blood frothed from his mouth. His eyelids grew heavy and his voice was no more than a whisper. ‘Do not thwart our plans Alaric, or you will certainly die. Our goal is greater than anything you could possibly conceive, and nothing must block our path. Not even you.’

Philippe spoke those words with his last breath. His head lolled back and he died. Full of anger, I let him drop back to the ground and stood up.

At that moment, Khaled groaned. I ran over and knelt beside him.

‘Khaled’ I exclaimed. ‘My friend, you are alive!’

He groaned and muttered in his native tongue.

‘Don’t move. I will find something for the wounds.’

I ripped some clean linen from the surcoat of a dead knight and dressed Khaled’s wound as best I could. The gash above his waist was substantial and bleeding profusely. My heart sank when, after binding his torso with fresh linen, the blood soaked through in moments. Benito had taken waterskins from the dead knights. I cleaned and re-dressed the bandages a number of times, and we carried the Muslim into the shade of a twisted cypress, but he was in extreme pain and I doubted he would survive for much longer. I fretted and paced for some time, until deciding to secure Khaled to a saddle and move on. With luck, we would find an inhabited village quickly and could rest in more comfortable surroundings. Benito agreed, so I went to round up our mounts. I climbed a low hill and what I saw on the other side made me sick with grief. All our horses had been slaughtered. I ran to Awad, my beautiful Arabian palfrey, and wept. He lay on his side completely still, eyes still dark and large but now lifeless. His throat had been cut and dark blood matted the scrub and sand. Hugo, my faithful destrier, had also died from a slit throat. Yet his flanks had been mutilated, his eyes plucked out and his tail hacked off. This huge, powerful beast had been my closest friend, my most faithful ally throughout more battles and bloody conflicts than I care to remember. It was obscene to see this brave animal now prostate and disfigured amongst its own blood. I sat and stroked Hugo’s black mane, and whispered memories to him, crying all the while. A knight’s horse is more than just his mount; it is his companion, his protector, his brother. I looked to the horizon and saw dust clouds; no doubt the Dudael knights who had murdered our beloved beasts, then fled like dogs while we fought. Whoever was responsible, I vowed they would suffer a terrible retribution. Then I wiped my eyes and returned to Khaled and Benito. I explained to Benito in a whisper that we would not be travelling anywhere today. Khaled did not need to know at that moment that his own horse had been slaughtered.

I was at a loss about what we should do next. Khaled passed in and out of consciousness. I fed him wine mixed with small quantities of Arba’s opium, which relieved his pain for a time. Benito sat disconsolately on his haunches, staring at the ground. Fate had dealt us a rotten hand. For a time I reconnoitred the area, in case any of the knights’ horses roamed nearby, but I found none; without their masters, they had fled into the desert to run wild or be captured. Returning to our camp I checked the identities of the dead knights. I did indeed recognise a number of them as Templars, all of who had been presumed dead by the Order. At various times they had left the commandery on certain missions and none had returned; little did we know, throughout out mourning, that these traitor knights had faked their own deaths, and were now brothers in a renegade order led by my father. The scum. So much grief expended, and for naught. I flew into a rage then, kicking the prone body of a so-called Dudael knight until it became a formless sack of dead flesh. ‘By God, the Holy Mother and all the saints’ I screamed; ‘by Iblis and his fallen angels – I swear I will murder every last one of you deceitful bastards. And if you wish me dead, father, then so be it. But I will seek you out too; we will fight until the very stars flicker and die. And be assured, I will triumph.’

My heart was heavy as I trudged around the perimeter of our pathetic camp. While I sat cursing all my enemies, I heard a faint jangling noise, as though from a tiny bell. I looked up and saw, on a fence post before me, the falcon known as Qamar. Its yellow beady eyes regarded me querulously; the bird cocked its head to one side and screeched an appellation. My heart skipped as I began formulating a plan for our salvation.

‘Stay there’ I said to the falcon. ‘Don’t move. Good bird.’

I ran to Khaled’s dead horse and rooted in his saddlebag.

Benito saw me and called out. ‘What is it my Lord? What has happened?’

‘The falcon. Melchisedek Tob’s bird has arrived. I must write a message. The bird will send for help; he will find the Jew and bring aid.’

I finally located Khaled’s pouch of writing instruments, scrawled a swift message to the Jew of the Sun and ran back to the bird. The falcon had flown nearer and was waiting for me. Qamar offered no resistance as I secured the parchment to its scaly claw. Then, without pause, the bird took to the air and, within moments, was no longer visible to the eye. I walked back to camp, praying that it would swiftly find its master.

‘Is it done?’ asked Benito.

I nodded.

‘What do we do now?’

‘We wait’ I replied. ‘We wait. And watch. And hope.’

CHAPTER 39

Khaled slept fitfully for some time. He awoke on occasion, and I administered more wine and opium to him.

‘How are you my friend?’

‘Very pleasant’ he replied, a faint smile flickering across his pale features. The opium had obviously taken effect, but his voice was faint. He seemed to be slipping awaom us.

I turned him over to dress his wound once more. The blood flowed freely as I removed the sodden linen; he had been lying in a pool of his own blood ever since his dressing was last changed. He must have heard me sigh as I attempted to stem the flow, because he fumbled for a small leather pouch on his belt and weakly proffered it to me.

‘Use this’ he said. ‘Pour the powder directly into the wound. It may help stop the bleeding.’

Then he chuckled dryly. ‘I pray to Allah the Restorer of Life and Preventer of Harm that it does. I’ve given the ground most of my blood already; I cannot afford to spare much more.’

‘Try not to talk’ I replied, unfastening the pouch and examining its contents. The powder within was very fine, almost like dust, and of a deep brownish hue. It smelled of earth and spice. I shook it out evenly across the wound, tore some padding from my own quilted gambeson, and bound the wound with the last clean linen I could find. I lit a fire and examined a wound to the arm I had also received; once cleaned, it appeared less serious than I had first thought. The gash was almost two finger-lengths, but not deep. I would survive.

I turned to Benito and thanked him again for the courage he had shown earlier.

‘Through that one deed, you saved Khaled’s life’ I said.

The anchorite poked the fire with a stick, sending bright sparks into the air.

‘I am not a violent man’ he said sombrely. ‘I am a quiet man, a solitary man. I find meaning in prayer and silent contemplation of God’s will. When you took me from my cell at the hermitage, I hated you. My world – and all meaning – was destroyed. But since I have been with you, I have learned things. I have learned what it means to have companions. This is new to me. Never before did I have friends. You and the Muslim are comrades – divided by belief, yet united by honour. You share a common bond, and a common enemy.’

Benito looked at me from beneath his tangled mass of hair. ‘I thought you were sinful. Yes. Well, maybe you are. But you are honourable also. You have protected me despite everything, and you have cared for the Muslim.’

His face creased into a rare smile. ‘I think you are in danger of becoming a good man.’

I half-scoffed at this. ‘You may be right’ I muttered, almost to myself. But his words warmed me.

I looked back at Benito. ‘When this is over, I will return you to the hermitage at Acre, come what may.’

Benito shrugged his thin shoulders. ‘I entered the hermitage to escape evil. But something else I have learned – maybe one should confront it instead. Perhaps one can control the evil here –‘ he touched his chest ‘- and outside oneself, here in the world. Perhaps isolation is not the answer. But I will need to be strong…’ His voice tailed off.

I left Benito to his meditations and climbed the low hill to look skyward. Dusk was rapidly approaching, and bats already wheeled amongst the trees. The sky was empty; there was no sign of Rabbi Tob’s ship of the air.

Night had all but fallen by the time Khaled awoke with a start; I threw a log on the dying embers of the fire. He suddenly seemed much more alert, looking about the darkening wilderness in confusion. I took my water skin over to him and bade him drink.

‘You look better’ I said, sounding more surprised than I had intended.

‘Yes. I feel it, praise be to Allah.’ But he was distracted. He hauled himself up onto his elbows and strained to see into the failing light.

What time is it?’ he asked.

‘It is gone dusk’ I replied.

He looked nervous. ‘Pass me my saddlebag’ he requested. I did so. He searched within and pulled out the lump of jade he had been carving each night since we first met.

‘I must ask a favour of you Christian’ he said solemnly. ‘Will you do it?’

‘Of course.’

‘Take this’ he said, pressing the jade into my hand, ‘and watch over me tonight. On no account must you fall asleep. Do you understand?’ There was a flicker of panic in his voice.

‘I swear I will not’ I asserted. ‘Whatever it is that keeps you awake every night, that terrifies you through the dark hours, you need not fear it tonight.’

‘And why is that?’ he asked, puzzled.

‘Because Melchisedek Tob is coming. I have sent his falcon, Qamar, to him. The rabbi will bring aid. And once on board his ship of the air, you will be able to sleep peacefully, as you did before.’

Khaled turned away, looking thoughtful. ‘It is true that Kabikaj cannot reach me when I am amongst the stars…’

He looked back at me. ‘But when is Melchisedek Tob expected?’

‘I do not know. He will come when he is ready no doubt.’

Khaled looked grim. ‘Then I cannot rely upon any help or rescue from the rabbi.’

‘So I will watch over you tonight. But by Mary’s dugs you must tell me – although until now you have chosen not to – what is the purpose of that piece of jade, and what is it that denies you the sanctuary of sleep, night after night?’

Khaled sighed, winced and shifted his body into a more comfortable position.

‘This’ he began, gesturing at the jade disc, ‘is a nafra – a talisman to ward off djinn. On one side is carved Ya Hafiz and the names of the Seven Sleepers of the Cave, and the dog Qitmir. The names must be carved to form a pentagon, and within it a Solomon's Seal. On the other side is a magic square with the names of the four archangels. Inscribed around the edge is one of the seven Covenants of Solomon. It reads “in the name of God, not touch the one who carries this neither in his walking nor sitting.”

I rubbed my thumb over the ornate Arabic letters. The inscription around the edge looked incomplete. ‘So this is an amulet, to protect the wearer from a devil – an evil spirit…?’

Khaled nodded. ‘Let it be known that, since I was a boy, an Ifrit – a powerful djinn – has been hounding me remorselessly. The Ifrit is called Kabikaj, the Djinn of Insects. Every year he has grown nearer, and every year I have wondered when he would finally catch up with me. So far he has not. But as sure as night follows day, I have felt him grow closer, heard him prowling through the deserts and cities, and smelled his rancid odour. He comes in the night. At first, when I was younger, I barely noticed his presence at the edge of my dreams. But as the years wore on, my dreams became nightmares, filled with images of decay and pestilence. Eventually, I could sleep no more, so terrible were the visions. Kabikaj had sullied my dreams with his evil, so I learned how to stay awake through the long, dark hours. Over time I began to sense that he was much closer. In the night I heard him crawling over rocks, heard his terrible breathing and growling, and the sounds of the insect horde that accompanies him. I prayed to Allah for mercy, and so fate decreed that I should discover certain books that described the manufacture of an amulet that could ward off the Ifrit. Once I had completed it, I would be permanently protected. But as you can see, the carving is not finished. And I am running out of time. Kabikaj is almost upon me; he strays too near these days. I feel his breath upon me. In days, maybe hours, he will claim me for his own, and I am now too weak to finish carving the nafra.’

I assured him that, if we had not been rescued by nightfall, I would not let the Ifrit take him. ‘The Shalat is a sword of power, forged by the angels themselves. Maybe it has power against your demons as much as my own’ I said.

Khaled looked doubtful. ‘We shall see, sooner than I care for.’

There was a pause in our conversation while I prepared him more wine and opium. Then I asked him: ‘why does this Ifrit hunt you? What have you done to warrant it?’

Khaled smiled a grim smile. ‘Do you remember’ he asked, ‘on Mount Hermon, when Arba said that the sons inherit the sins of their father? How right he was.’

‘What do you mean?’

Khaled looked into the fire. ‘It is time I finished my story, if you will hear it.’

I nodded, and he began.

CHAPTER 40

‘As I told you, my father was once librarian at the Nizari fortress of Alamut. At that time, the Golden Horde known of the Mongol Khan began to sweep into Persia. The Mongols were a force of nature, immense, terrifying and unstoppable in their relentless war against all men. Their armies were too large to comprehend – only a fool would dare to stand against them. Their lust for conquest sprang from an ancient myth: their god, Mongke Tengri, decreed that it was their divine right to dominate all life. Thus, those that stood against them were slaughtered without compunction. The Nizari Im at that time was the luckless Rukn ad-Din. He sent Assassins amongst the Golden Horde in order to subdue them, but without success. The Great Khan Mongke was made aware of the plot and set out to annihilate the source of these Assassins, for he wisely considered the Nizaris to be a dangerous enemy. The Mongol general in charge of the assault was known as Hulagu. He gathered about him a mounted army of the finest warriors and descended on Alamut. It was recorded that the Mongol forces were so immense that the valleys and mountains were carpeted with men. Chinese engineers constructed giant catapults around the soaring walls of Alamut. When the bombardment began, even this great fortress could not withstand the giant stone missiles that rained down. Our master Rukn ad-Din surrendered and all was lost. Hulagu and his men stripped the castles to the bone, like ants on a lion’s corpse. At this point my father, using all his wit and intelligence, declared to the Mongols that he was not a Nizari and, in fact, was a Nestorian Christian who had been captured and enslaved. He was able to do this because of the doctrine of taqiya, which allows all Muslims to deny their faith when faced with death. There were many Nestorians amongst the Mongol horde, so they spared his life. The Nizari libraries were raided and my father, along with his precious books, was taken deep into Mongol lands, to the city of Qaraqorum. His new home was quite alien to him, but he was deeply impressed by the scale and splendour of the palaces and the wisdom and serenity of the Buddhist monks who resided in their monasteries. Mongke Khan and the imperial court were also quite taken by my father, for that was his intention – to infiltrate and ultimately undermine the enemy. He seduced them with his wisdom and insight into matters, and spent much time conversing with Buddhist teachers and fellow astrologers; eventually he was installed as chief steward of the imperial library, where many of the Nizaris’ books now resided. However, his relative contentment was soon to be shattered. News swiftly arrived of a terrible atrocity in Persia, where whole communities of Nizari disciples were put to the sword by Mongol warriors. Hulagu had given the command that none of our people should be spared, not even the babies in the cradle. Thus, an entire people was annihilated. The fires of vengeance stirred deep in my father’s heart and, while forcing back the bitterest tears, swore a terrible oath to Allah that this act would be revisited on the Mongol dogs tenfold. To his masters he was still a Nestorian Christian, so these black thoughts were buried deep inside until the opportunity for revenge drew near. The years seemed to tame his hatred and he slowly, tentatively fell in love with a Mongol princess. Love appeared to be both a balm and an amnesic, for they were married after a time. News of my father’s brilliance had spread throughout the Mongol Khanates and so, soon enough, a command from the great Mongol leader Khubilai Khan determined that my father and his wife should visit the Imperial court at the city of Shang-tu, where he was received with warmest affection and swiftly became the Khan’s chief astrologer. Soon after this was the occasion of my birth. Thus I am like unlike most other men because I am a strange concoction of both Mongol and Persian blood.’

Khaled paused to drink and I remembered, when we first met, thinking how unlike a typical Syrian he looked.

‘At this time’ continued Khaled, ‘there was disunity in the Mongol empire, but Khubilai Khan cared not – his preoccupations lay within his court, which was attended by many of his people, as well as emissaries from foreign lands come to pay homage to the Lord of all Lords. In fact, while I was but a boy, I recalled the presence at court of an Italian merchant, one Niccolo Polo Brother Maffeo and Niccolo’s son, Marco. They were from Venice and were well received by the Mongol Lord. Being highly placed in his affections, they remained at Shang-tu for a number of years before travelling throughout the Khan’s empire. Marco was older than I, but I remember that I was a far more proficient horseman; while I could use a bow from horseback with relative ease, he regularly ended up with his face in the dust. Khubilai enjoyed the courtly life; his palace was arrayed with walls of gold and silver, and floors of marble. He sat in the midst of the immense hall, on thrones surrounded by candles. On both sides stood the imperial guard and the eunuchs, while at his feet lay his beautiful hounds. His four consorts sat nearby and his generals, soothsayers, priests and astrologers were also present. His many sons and other relatives attended court, as did ambassadors from various lands. One of the Khan’s favourite pastimes was philosophical and theological discourse. He was a liberal ruler, entertaining holy men from all manner of faiths without preference or persecution. Indeed, he keenly observed the festivals of the four major prophets, as he saw them – Jesus, Muhammed, Moses and Sakyamuni Burkan. At first, he appeared as a man at ease with the unimaginable power he wielded. Despite the fact that he could summon an army of five hundred thousand with no effort, he was wise and restrained in committing them to war. However, the blood of the Great Khan Genghis ran thick through his veins and over the years he became restless, craving the thrill of conquest. By this time a new city, just south of Shang-tu, had been built. It was called Ta-tu and was even more splendid than any city in any of the Khanates that had gone before. Khubilai moved there and was happy for a short while, but the desire for battle still consumed him. Recently, he had commanded submission from an island called Japan, to the east of the Yellow Sea. Their response had been insolent, so the Great Khan began preparations for war. Over the years, my father had been slowly transferring his knowledge of sorcery and arcana onto my shoulders. I was now a man and together we saw an opportunity to exact our revenge on the Mongols for the destruction of our people. Khubilai and my father consulted regularly on the most astrologically propitious time for launching an attack on the Japanese, and a date was eventually set. A fleet of ships set sail laden with twenty thousand Mongol warriors. I was amongst them. The Japanese fielded a caste of noble, brave and ferocious knights called Samurai, much like you Franks; they even followed a code of conduct akin to your concept of chivalry, and covered themselves in armour from head to toe, as you do. The battle raged and they were in danger of being overwhelmed by our superior forces. My father, who was on a boat out to sea, sent a messenger for me to return to him and I did so swiftly, for I knew what was about to follow. Using all the methods at his disposal, my father summoned a typhoon that scattered the Mongol ships and decimated the Khan’s army. We retreated and the generals returned to Ta-tu with the news of their failure. Naturally, Khubilai was furious with everyone, particularly my father, but our hearts smiled because the bitter years of anguish following the annihilation of the Nizaris was now sweetened by the euphoria of revenge. Unbelievably, the Great Khan planned another attack on the Japanese mainland, with many more troops than before. We planned a second act of revenge. My father knew that a further defeat in so similar a fashion could result in his execution; after all, he was directly responsible for advising the Great Khan on the timing of the strike. We decided that at a given signal, I was to make good my escape from the battleground. My father would continue with his spell-weaving until he was discovered, or until his enchantment was complete. On the day of the battle I wept uncontrollably, fearing I would never see my dear father again, but I knew that this act of vengeancedefined him – it was his world. He told me to seek out any surviving Nizari after my escape and tell them what had happened, how we had exacted justice for them against the murderous Mongols. Through my sobs I promised that I would, and then I left to join the assault. The Mongol boats ploughed silent white furrows through the water until we gained sight once again of the island called Japan. Warriors rowed ashore in swarms, only to discover that the Japanese, anticipating further attack, had constructed a line of coastal defences. We fought hand-to-hand for a month, but to no avail. In that time I acquired my sword – the katana – from a fallen Samurai, and learned much about their tactics, techniques and warrior code, which is called Bushido in the Japanese tongue. Finally, a loyal messenger arrived at my tent one evening and instructed me to flee immediately; he gave me use of his boat, which was well-stocked with provisions. Being both giddy with anticipation and sick at heart, I took to the sea but loitered in my progress. The wind rose, whipping my sail, and on the distant horizon gathered the blackest clouds I had ever seen. I was well clear of the typhoon when it struck; I heard later that more than six hundred thousand Mongols had perished in the storm. Even as I tell you now, my heart swells with pride at my father’s great and final act.’ Khaled looked away and wiped his eyes.

‘In order to raise the typhoons’ he continued, composing himself, ‘my father summoned a score of Ifrits – including the very same Kabikaj who stalks me today. I realised that a diabolic pact had been made between the Djinn of Insects and my father. Either he could not fulfil the terms of the pact, or he had included me in the bargain. Either way, the son inherited the sin of his father and the terms of the pact were extended to me. Now Kabikaj hunts me to claim my soul in lieu of my father’s, growing closer and closer with every passing day. He is so close now I can almost hear his foul heart beating.’

CHAPTER 41

‘Do you know what became of your father?’ I asked quietly.

‘I do not’ he replied. ‘There is no doubt he is dead now, as he was an old man those ten years before.’

‘And what did you do thereafter?’ I enquired.

‘I sailed south, travelling through India and the Moghul Empire. I crossed the Arabian Sea and spent some time in Mecca and Medina, in order to fulfil the rites of Hajj. But my burning desire was to visit the lands of my father, to witness the places he had spoken of but which I had never seen and could only dream about. Eventually I arrived in Syria, where small bands of Nizaris still lived, and I bore witness to my father’s great act of revenge. I joined a sect of Assassins – mercenaries; we offered our services to the highest bidder. In times of war, there is much work for our kind. I have fought both for and against the Franks and Muslims – the Mameluk Turks are Sunnis; they are our enemy and I have no loyalty to them or their faith. Thus, for many years now have I earned my living with this - ‘ he tapped his forehead ‘- and this.’ He tapped the hilt of his sword.

‘So,’ I ventured. ‘You are a warlock as well as a swordsman.’

Khaled smiled slowly. ‘Let us simply agree that I am well-versed in many sciences>

I took a draught of wine and smiling, said ‘then not only are you a heathen, you are also knowingly in league with Satan. I shall sleep well tonight, in the knowledge that I lie alongside the son of Gog and Magog!’

Khaled looked suddenly perturbed, but I laughed and said ‘Do not fret my friend. I am jesting. I promise on my life that I will keep watch tonight and fend off any attack from this Kabikaj.’

Khaled dozed briefly after that. It was fully dark now, and a waxing, gibbous moon hung low in the night sky. But I saw nothing else there, save for thousands of stars. Then something did catch my attention. Far to the south the sky seemed to glow, as though dawn was just about to break, or the last dregs of sunlight were draining from the day. It made no sense and I could not imagine what might have caused it, save a fire of enormous proportions. Maybe someone had indeed ignited an entire forest; in these unnatural times I was prepared to entertain any foolish notion. The night was very quiet. Both Khaled and Benito were asleep. I took a swig from my wine skin and gazed up at the firmament, stirred by the wonder of it. If my destiny was to prevent the destruction of all this worldly beauty, then so be it. That, surely, was the noblest of causes.

I awoke with a start and cursed. All was silent, and the moon was now higher and brighter in the night sky. I saw Benito and Khaled asleep beside the dying embers of the fire. My racing heart calmed then, knowing the Muslim was still safe despite my lapse. I threw another few logs on the flames; they spat and hissed, scattering embers like bright fireflies. We were running low on wood, so I left them briefly to collect more a stockpile I had made earlier. Creatures chirruped and whistled in the darkness: bats and crickets. The moon cast her silver mantle across the still land, and the trees mustered a gentle rustle in the nighttime breeze. There was another noise on the wind. My blood coursed. It was distant but deep; a resonant sound, like a swarm of wasps. Other noises became apparent: a movement amongst the landscape; the sound of tree boughs parting and scrub being uprooted. And footfalls – heavy, slow, ponderous. I moved slowly, still cradling a number of branches, and scanned the gloom. Then I placed the wood on the ground as silently as I could and strained to listen. I discerned breathing, deep and rasping, like a dying man gasping for breath. The sounds grew louder. I saw things move at the edge of my vision, small shapes skitting through the air. I retreated to the camp and took a burning log from the fire, then thrust the sputtering brand into the night. I could see nothing, but sensed an unwholesome presence all about me, permeating the darkness. I waved the flaming brand aimlessly, and its glow caught movement of some kind, but whatever I saw moved too fast and was too indistinct to describe. A loud crack to my left, like the sound of bones being crushed, made me start. Then a huge mass, black and terrible, moved past my field of vision, mere feet away from my face. The very air itself hissed and recoiled from the stench, which was overpowering – like a charnel house. The sound of insects was louder too; huge swarms ebbing and flowing around me, but still I could not see them. Khaled groaned and I ran to his aid. The fire had been extinguished. I heard Benito’s voice cry out, and waved the brand towards him. The flames briefly illuminated his gaunt, petrified features, then a sudden fetid wind blew through the night and my brand spluttered, coughed and died. I was as good as blind now. The sound of insects was like crashing waves.

I shouted at Benito: ‘get away from the cam. Move out into the open.’

Khaled was lying somewhere nearby. I called his name and stumbled about, but could see nothing. Then I spied a dark shape crouching amongst the trees.

‘Khaled!’ I shouted. ‘Is that you? Can you walk? I will carry you.’

I saw no movement yet clearly heard the slow rising and falling of breathing. And I quickly realised that the shape was far larger than that of a man.

Frustrated, I looked about me. We needed to leave this place. ‘Khaled! Where are you? We must leave now.’

In the darkness, the eyes that opened then were not Khaled’s. Indeed, they did not belong to anything of human origin. They were reptilian, but stained with disease, and the colour of fire; they burned in the night like infernal jewels. Speech came forth, deep and sonorous, echoing as if spoken from the Abyss itself. What was said made no sense to my ears, but it was a black, brutal tongue; a primitive argot of growls and clicks. Worst of all was the stench, like a wall of rotting flesh. This then was the Ifrit known as Kabikaj, Djinn of Insects. I recoiled in terror and revulsion and fled. The moon had withdrawn behind clouds. Benito stood nearby, carrying our possessions.

‘Where is Khaled?’ I shouted.

Benito looked suddenly panicked. ‘I – I thought he was here with you.’

I looked about me, not knowing which way to turn, and then saw what appeared to be a dense cloud of flies clustered around a shape on the ground, as though feeding on carrion. I moved closer, sword drawn. It was as I feared – Khaled was lying unmoving in the dust, covered in a thick undulating coat of insects.

I shouted and broke into a run, pulling the jade amulet he had given me from my pouch and yelling a phrase Khaled had taught me as protection against evil: ‘Bismillaah-illadhi laa yaduru ma' ismihi shayun fil-ardi wa laa fis-samawaati wa huwas-Samee'-ul-'Aleem. A’oodhu bi Kalimaat-illaah-it-Tamaat min sharri maa khalaq.’ As soon as I was upon him the insects seemed to withdraw slightly. I grimaced and brushed the scuttling creatures from his face. His skin was covered in welts; he looked more dead than alive.

At that moment, Benito called out and pointed.

‘Look sir knight, look to the skies. Do you see? Two moons! Two moons in the night sky!’

The moon had broken from its cloud cover and beside it, a second had appeared. But this white orb was moving, growing nearer, and clearly descending towards us.

‘It’s the rabbi!’ I screamed, my heart suddenly leaping. ‘Melchisedek Tob is come to rescue us. Benito, look after our saddlebags. And prepare to board that ship of the air – this time you are coming with us!’

I turned back to the swarm of insects enveloping Khaled and dusted them off. I waved the amulet over him, which saw more of the insects retreat, then buried it in his tunic; this would afford him some protection at least. I crouched and lifted his body onto my shoulder – he was a dead weight, and heavier than I had expected. The white orb of Tob’s ship was much closer now, and a large wicker basket swung below it. I started to run and commanded Benito – who was weighed down with our possessions – to do the same. The cloud of flies followed us. They were vicious and unrelenting, attacking my eyes and swarming around our mouths and ears. Melchisedek Tob’s celestial machine was almost overhead now. The basket beneath it skipped and skidded across the rubble, ploughing through dust and scrub at the speed of a galloping horse.

‘Get ready’ I shouted to Benito. ‘Get in front of the basket.’ He looked resolute, but utterly petrified.

Something was moving to my rear, approaching at a rapid pace. I felt its footfalls on the ground as I stumbled and ran. Within moments it was upon me. Its deep growl rumbled through the night. A huge mass smashed into my back and I crashed onto the hard ground, winded and aching from the blow. Khaled’s prone body rolled through the dust like a child’s puppet, arms and legs spinning lifelessly. Wincing, I stood up on unsteady feet, the Shalat in one hand, and faced my attacker. Even with the moon upon it I could not discern its true form; it was simply a towering dark mass, taller than a church tower and undulating with swarms of flies and other insects. It growled again and I saw a flash of yellow teeth, a glimpse of bone necklace and rude bronze piercings, then a clawed fist sped towards me, clotted with insects. I rolled through the dust and swung my sword, but made no contact. The devil was corporeal – it had struck me hard enough; I knew I could strike it back, given the opportunity. Another fist emerged from the heaving mass and smashed into my face. I was thrown backwards as pain exploded across my nose. Every tendon and fibre in my body was urging me to take flight, or beg for mercy. I crawled up onto my haunches and blood poured from my face. The fiery eyes of the Ifrit burned with malevolence. I saw a tangle of black horns atop what might have been its head, and a thrash of black tails like wounded snakes. A heaving swarm of flies peeled away from its torso and flew towards Khaled’s prone, battered body.

Though my ears rung and my senses were still reeling from the last attack, I heard Benito call out. Looking across I saw him running for the speeding basket. He lunged for the rope to which it was attached, caught it and fell into the vessel; the contents of our saddlebags scattered across the dirt. Above him sailed Tob’s immense, silent leviathan of the air. Summoning my last dregs of willpower I crawled to my feet and staggered towards Khaled. Amongst the cloud of flies I slung him over my shoulder and ran, limbs burning, toward the bucking wicker basket. Benito, lurching left and right, leaned out and strained to grab Khaled’s flaying arms. I yelled, urging my legs to make the distance, but they buckled and I stumbled forward, just as Benito linked his arm under Khaled’s and hauled him into the safety of the basket. I lay in the dust, almost too exhausted to catch a breath, and watched my companions speed away into the night. The Ifrit Kabikaj bore down on me, screeching a terrible wail of victory. Its putrescent breath made me gag, but I was spent, and waited for death. Then I heard a thud as a weighted rope slapped to earth, just behind me. Instinctively I grabbed it as it sped past, and looked up to see that it was connected to the casket slung beneath Tob’s ship of the air. The Ifrit screeched and broke into a thundering run, sending clouds of flies towards me like coils of black smoke. Suddenly Kabikaj paused in his pursuit, and cast his fierce eyes upwards. Framed by the moon, falcon Qamar hovered above him, its tiny frame silhouetted in the night, screeching a warning. Pulling myself hand over hand along the rough ground, I looked back to see the giant Ifrit, seemingly confused by the presence of this bird, claw clumsily at the air. It expelled a defiant growl and sent a swarm of flies towards the hovering falcon. From the corners of the night more falcons emerged – scores of them – and launched diving attacks into the heaving black mass that was the Djinn of Insects. Tob’s ship peeled away from the earth and I was airborne, suspended in wind and darkness. Someone high above began pulling me towards them and so I started to climb, leaving the strange battle raging below.

CHAPTER 42

The interior of the Jew’s casket was as I remembered it – crammed with objects. And Melchisedek Tob himself, who stood before me again, had not changed. On this occasion though he looked slightly drawn, like a man who had cast aside sleep in favour of wakeful preoccupations. He bade me sit down and brought forth a large bowl of water and some clean rags.

‘Thank you Rabbi’ I gasped, ‘for saving us. That devil would have killed us all had you not arrived when you did.’

His watery eyes sparkled. ‘I had received some intimation of the troubles that might befall you. But it was not easy to reach you in the necessary time.’ His voice was mild and soothing.

‘Your nose is broken I think’ he observed, gently patting away some of the blood. Then he moved over to Khaled, who lay gore-splattered and unmoving nearby.

‘Is he dead?’ I asked.

‘No. But the Angel of Death is near.’ The rabbi gently untied the Muslim’s surcoat and examined the wound beneath.

‘He was struck during an attack by the Knights of Dudael’ I explained ‘Benito saved his life.’ I gestured towards the silent figure of the hermit who sat nearby. Benito was wary and fearful, sitting hunched in the corner of the casket, eyes hooded. He looked up briefly to acknowledge Tob’s presence, and then rested his gaze on Khaled’s recumbent body.

Melchisedek Tob worked quietly and ceaselessly throughout the night, tending to our wounds, feeding us with broth and water, and soothing us with kind words. While treating the rude cut to Khaled’s side with various tinctures, he told me that it was the nafra – the jade talisman – that had ultimately saved the Muslim’s life.

‘The nafra kept Kabikaj at bay until I was able to arrive’ he mused, removing the amulet, now caked with blood and dirt, from beneath Khaled’s robes. ‘Any later and the Ifrit would have succeeded in enslaving him. He would then have been bound by the terms of the original pact, whatever they may have been.’

‘But Khaled is safe here for now, amongst the clouds?’

‘Yes, Khaled is safe – at least from the Ifrit. Kabikaj is a demon of the desert and so is tethered to the earthly realm.’

Some time later the falcon known as Qamar returned. The bird flewto the casket from the trapdoor below and landed on its perch, where it screeched loudly and stepped agitatedly back and forth. We all expressed delight that it had returned, yet when Tob went over to the bird it was clear that all was not well. Qamar refused to settle, screeching and regarding me with its piercing yellow eyes. Tob crouched low and whispered to it, as though engaged in some kind of quaint conversation. The falcon splayed one wing, but the other was limp and battered, no doubt broken during its battle with the Ifrit. The rabbi carefully fed it some precious raw meat, talking to it all the while, and eventually the bird calmed. Indeed, we all grew quickly weary. Tob drew a curtain about him so that he could conduct the rituals of his faith in private; Benito lay curled in a corner like an exhausted hound, snoring gently, and I too soon succumbed to sleep.

My dreams took me to silent, lonely places. I travelled through darkness, through caverns, to the frozen tombs of the earth and the desiccated forests of ancient bones that lay there. And in those black, vaulted lich houses I saw a face, thin as death and little more than a skull. The eyes were lifeless sockets, the hair was like matted sea rope, but the dun-coloured teeth were drawn back in a twisted leer. I heard strangled, faint laughter, as thin and dry as the wind through dead reeds. And the face vanished, retreated back into the stale darkness, to be replaced by another. This new face wore a similar expression, but the teeth were white and the eyes present, albeit dark and bloodshot. The skin was shiny and taut, and covered in welts and scratches. I felt a pressure on me, a tightening of the throat, followed by dull pain and a gasping for breath. The vision flickered, blurred and vanished, then reappeared. In the depths of my dream I realised that the face belonged to Khaled. My body was taut with sudden anxiety, and I forced my eyes to open, although they seemed weighted with a drugged heaviness. I was back in the flickering, candle-lit confines of Tob’s casket. But Khaled’s face was still before me and his hands were clasped tightly around my neck. I snapped free from the bonds of sleep and wrenched at Khaled’s arms, but his strength was immense and I could not release them. My bulging, hot eyes looked around and saw Benito and the rabbi, still asleep on nearby rugs. I tried to call out but the only sound that emerged was a hoarse whisper, like the silent screams of a night terror. Khaled’s pale, clammy face was close and grimacing, yet his eyes were blank – they seemed to look through me. And he was perfectly silent; not a word or sound escaped his lips. The edges of my vision began to blur and blacken, and I knew that soon I would collapse. Khaled looked delirious – he was certainly not himself, and was unlikely to relinquish his grip on my neck any time soon. With my last few breaths – despite my whispered apology – I snapped my head forward and butted him in the face. Dark blood cascaded down his features, dripping onto my chest. His face was thick with his own gore, but he did not recoil, or wince in pain, or shout, or lessen his grip. His sickly eyes continued to stare and his face remained fixed in a dull grimace. The lack of reaction threw me momentarily; the head-butt would have made a bear wince. In exasperation I sank back to the floor. Khaled leaned forward but seemed to lose balance; he wobbled slightly and suddenly I saw my chance. I pushed him hard and he fell to one side, on his face, but still clutching me. I used the momentum to wrestle myself on top of him, and at the same time twisted away. His hands, slick with his own blood, slid from my neck and I was free. I got up and withdrew, clutching my throat and taking deep, rasping breaths. Without pause he came at me again, but he was sluggish. I sidestepped and swept his feet from under him; he crashed loudly into a shelf full of Tob’s detritus, and collapsed onto Benito, who up to tha point had been asleep. Melchisedek Tob was awake now too, observing Khaled in horror.

‘The Muslim has gone mad’ I gasped. ‘He tried to strangle me.’

‘Keep him away from you’ replied the Rabbi, now frantically searching through boxes and scrolls. ‘He is possessed – he has unnatural strength.’

‘I’m aware of that’ I exclaimed as I backed away from Khaled, who had pulled himself up and now circled me menacingly. He was like a rabid dog, full of blunted fury and madness. The damage I had inflicted to his face made him snort, and with every breath he sprayed bloodied flecks. The rabbi began muttering some kind of incantation in a soft, monotone voice and Khaled’s attention turned away from me. Tob moved towards the Muslim, holding an earthenware pot in one hand. The bells attached to the hem of his robes seemed to disturb Khaled, who backed away until he collided with the casket’s crowded walls. Tob, now chanting more loudly, suddenly surged forwards and made the sign of the Hebrew word Chai with his hand, then scattered the contents of the pot into the air. A cloud of what looked like ash billowed around Khaled, and as the dust came to settle on him he growled in pain, as though showered with burning embers. In a rage he leapt sideways out of range from Tob and towards me. He landed in a crouch and I drew my sword.

‘Khaled’ I said cautiously. ‘You are not yourself, you are delirious. Stay back – let the rabbi help you. I do not want to use my blade against you.’ But I knew though that if I had to, I would.

Without warning he lunged and caught my leg, which he pulled towards him. I fell onto my back and, before I had time to react, Khaled had dragged me towards the casket’s trap door, set into the floor, and had opened it. My head was near its edge; I could smell the cold night air outside and caught a glimpse of stars flickering in the darkness. My feet were wedged against a wooden pillar as Khaled savagely pulled and twisted me nearer to the exit. I grappled with him, but he was strong and managed to pin my arms back. Slowly but surely, my feet gave way, my strength ebbed and Khaled’s relentless attacks saw me hauled irresistibly towards that portal into the black sky. My head now hung outside the casket; all I could hear was the buffeting chaos of the wind. Panicking I looked about me, but my vision was inverted – the moon was below me, blackness above.

‘Help!’ I screamed frantically. ‘Get him off me!’

Khaled’s hands pushed down on my face, suffocating any attempt at breathing and almost snapping my neck in two. I felt as though I was mere moments away from being flipped over and jettisoned into the cruel, cold night, to my doom on the desert floor far below. I waved my sword ineffectually but Khaled gripped my wrist and twisted it just as Melchisedek Tob thrust a thin faggot of burning, smoking twigs into his face. I yelled in pain as Khaled relaxed his grip and fell backwards, suddenly put to sleep by the pungent odour of the rabbi’s herbs. But it was all too late. The Shalat – the sword that had been forged in Heaven to defeat the fallen angel Azazel – fell from my grasp and cascaded towards the black earth below like a shard of distant silver.

CHAPTER 43

I sat bloodied and exhausted, sprawled across the floor. Khaled was being tended to by the rabbi and Benito. But no-one spoke; our hearts were heavy, our spirits dashed. Khaled’s breathing was deep and regular. His own dark blood, thickly clotted around his nose and mouth, became loosened as Tob dabbed his wounds with a wet cloth; it dribbled in rivulets down his pale features. The Muslim’s body looked wrecked, pocked with scratches, welts and cuts of all kinds. Something in me was moved, but it was tempered by a hardness, and I conjured thoughts of resentment and revenge towards him. I had a bond with Khaled, we were brothers in arms – men of blood, as Arba had said. I had even wondered – perhaps hoped – that one day we could become friends. Could that ever be possible though, between two men divided by race and faith? I doubted it. Besides, I could never forgive him for losing us the Shalat. It was the only key to any possible success in our mission. All was now lost and I cursed him. Did it count for aught that his mind was not his own? That his body was commanded by another? I wondered if he was in league with those who sought my destruction and whether this act of possession was in fact a ruse – a performance. Maybe he was truly my enemy after all. Yes, I did still doubt him, all the more so now. I was too weary to think clearly, or even care much about the consequences if it were true.

Melchisedek Tob came and sat near to me. He did not appear even slightly tired; rather, he was stern and lively. He cast me a look, but I did not return it. Instead, I watched Benito clumsily dress Khaled’s wounds.

‘You must not blame him for what has happened here tonight’ said Tob, in a low but forceful tone.

‘Why not?’ I replied hastily. ‘Was it not the Muslim that caused us to lose the sword? And with it, all our hope?’

‘No, it was not’ exclaimed the rabbi, louder than he had intended. ‘He was possessed by a will that was not his own.’

I turned to him, wearing a resentful look. ‘How do you know that? How can you be so sure that Khaled’s hand was guided by another?’

Tob held my gaze. ‘Believe me when I tell you that I know, beyond any doubt, that Khaled’s mind was consumed by another intelligence – one that would do us harm and see you fail.’

‘If you are correct, then who – if not Khaled – can I blame for the loss of the Shalat?’

Tob sighed deeply and put a hand on my shoulder. ‘That is a question not to be asked lightly’ he replied. ‘For the answer reveals more about the import of this mission than I would care to reveal. At first, I thought it the work of the Petrovingian Volkhvy – the sorcerer-knights that ride with your father. But I am now convinced that it was the work of their Patriarch himself. For the first time in two hundred years his has left the borders of Petrovingia and has entered the Kingdom of Jerusalem. Rarely does he engage directly in affairs outside him homeland, but on this occasion I believe that, somehow, he has extended his reach. I did not expect his powers to be so great, yet we are clearly vulnerable to his assaults.’

Tob continued to look at me, his eyes boring into mine. ‘There are few men on this earth as depraved and evil as he. His masters are the elder gods, cruel and primitive and all but forgotten now. But they aill potent. The Patriarch has mastered blasphemous and fell practices to harness their black powers, which he uses to exert control over his peoples and lands. For generations he has ruled in grim isolation, deep within the bowels of his city in the Volost Vuikka. No living creature outside Petrovingia knows its location, and none but a handful has ever laid eyes on the Patriarch himself. Yet the promise of unleashing Azazel into this realm has stirred him to action. He will use all his sorcerous arts to free the bonds that bind the creature. Whatever the reason, he and your father wish Azazel freed; you can imagine the terrible consequences if the Patriarch and Azazel conspired towards a common goal. All that is good and noble would be brought to its knees, defiled and mocked.’

The rabbi’s words struck me with a new kind of fear. ‘Then we are surely doomed. The Shalat is lost. And my enemy is boundless in its evil influence.’

Tob remained serious. But then his face began to crease into a warm smile. ‘Do not doubt the Patriarch’s intent. You threaten his plans, and so he would see you dead. I have already helped you more than I should have, and in so doing have neglected my commitment to the devotions that have consumed my every waking moment for almost fifty years. It was only after much prayer and deep contemplation that I chose to offer you my aid. When you arrived here, your mere presence caused me a wrench almost too intense to describe; you must remember that for the last six years I had not conversed in any way with another human being.’

I nodded. ‘Rabbi, I do not attempt to understand the sacrifices you have made. But I thank you for them more than my words could ever tell. Without you, I would not have reached this far. There is little I can do to repay you, save leave you in peace as soon as possible. If Khaled is well enough, we will leave you at first light tomorrow.’

Tob smiled again. ‘As I mentioned once before, there is a good man within you. And when it shines through it is like the gilded sun emerging from behind dark clouds.’

I felt kindness for the old man then. But before I could speak another word of thanks, his face became stern again and his watery eyes sparkled.

‘Long have I meditated on your fate, Alaric’ he began. ‘I thought you would have the resolve and the courage to face your trials alone. But the presence of the Patriarch changes everything. His reach is long and his sorcery is potent, as we have already witnessed. You will not survive against it.’

I flushed, and my heart raced weakly. ‘Was the rabbi now also without hope? Was he too resigned to my doom?’

‘Since I saw you last’ he continued, ‘I have consulted with all manner of authorities. I have prayed and contemplated, sought out answers and received advice from various emissaries. It is clear to me now that it is the will of Elohim himself that I should forsake the pure, blissful, solitary state I have enjoyed here, borne aloft amongst the stars. My journey towards yechidah will have to be postponed, for it is decreed that I shall help protect you against the Patriarch. Six years ago I rejected the physical realm, but it is my destiny that I should now return to it.’

The rims of his eyes reddened. ‘Whether I can combat the Patriarch’s sorcery, I do not know. This body is already frail and old, and unaccustomed to the vile rigours of battle. But I will accompany you to the Cave of Dudael. We will meet the army that awaits us there, and I will use all the powers available to me to prevent the Patriarch from freeing Azazel back into the world.’

I was speechless, but elated. I was about to blurt out an exclamation when Tob raised his hand. ‘We will say nothing more on it. Everything is arranged. This ship is on a course for Jerusalem, where we will land tomorrow. An old friend of mine resides in the city and we must visit him first – he can help us in a number of matters. Thereafter, we will head east out of the city on foot, towards the Monastery of St John, by the mouth of the Dead Sea, where your father’s army is billeted. And it is there that Azazel, the Petrovingians, and our fates await us.’

At that moment, the falcon Qamar flew from his perch and swooped out of the casket, through the trap door, and into the inky sky. Benito turned to look at us.

‘Come look’ he said, beckoning. ‘The Muslim awakes.’

CHAPTER 44

Khaled’s eyes were mere slits, but beneath them was movement. He groaned, and muttered an inaudible oath. While Benito continued to clean and dress his wounds, Tob mixed a variety of tinctures, which he then applied to the Muslim’s skin, or gently encouraged him to drink. I watched for a while, then turned to observe the dawn through the hatch in the floor of Tob’s casket. Lying on my front, chin on hands, I gazed out into the clean air, and down to the cool desert floor far below. The first rays of sun had just begun to caress the pale, lilac sands. A mountain range passed beneath us, the rugged peaks capped with snow. Sunlight caught the range’s sharp, jagged contours, while foothills to the south were slowly bathed is warm arcs, like animals rising from dark water. Some time later the foothills gave way to gentle undulations in the flat plain. The land was like a vast scroll, where I fancied angels at either end turned giant handles to give an impression of travel, and we were unmoving in a frozen firmament, suspended by God’s hand above the passing landscape. Occasionally, birds would fly close to the underside of the casket, and I could observe the wind buffeting their feathers and the sun glinting in their polished eyes; other birds, in flocks or alone, flew further below. I tried to organise the birds into layers, and eventually determined that nine tiers of bird-flight separated our casket from distant earth. Those furthest away were almost impossible to identify; they moved slowest of all, but seemed to scrape the desert floor. Yet below them, on the earth itself, I spied movement. At first I struggled to make sense of what I saw. Then it became apparent, and I gasped. Below, thousands of men, like ants grouped into long columns, were marching across the desert. I could just discern horses, carts, banners, even cattle, and tens of thousands of men, marching as one across the gently undulating landscape. It was the largest army I had ever witnessed, even from my vantage point high above. As we sailed over the gigantic throng, I suddenly felt extremely vulnerable, and wondered if their arrows could reach us; I prayed that no-one would look up and try their luck with a bow. Time passed and still the army marched beneath, and I finally realised, once the shock had subsided, that this army was the Muslim Mameluk horde, marching on Acre for a final reckoning with the ragged band of Christian defenders. I remembered hearing some reports tell that the Mameluk umbered two hundred thousand. Looking down, I could believe it, though I felt sick at the thought. Acre did not stand a chance, and would be taken within hours of an attack. I prayed for my Templar brothers and the knights from the other Orders, who waited within the city’s high walls for the siege to begin. And for Giacinta, the merchants and the other poor fools who went about their usual business, proud and careless, blissfully unaware of the annihilation that awaited them. I rolled away from the trapdoor and looked at my companions, preoccupied with their own tasks, and said nothing.

By midday Khaled was fully awake, albeit weary and in pain. He had no memory of the attack by the Ifrit Kabikaj, or the rescue by Melchisedek Tob. I passed him the nafra – the jade amulet of protection he had carved every night since we had met. Despite his fragile state, he demanded to know everything about our encounter with the Ifrit. I told him all I could: that the Djinn had been repelled, and that – thanks to the rabbi – we were able to make good our escape. As I spoke his face softened and tears rolled down his cheeks. Grievously wounded though he was, he seemed to grow younger before us, as though a heavy burden had been lifted from him. His skin seemed less taut and less dark around the eyes. Wincing, he leaned across and embraced me.

‘Ever since I became a man, the Djinn of Insects has pursued me. He and I were bound by a pact first conjured by my father, and every night since then I have lain awake, sensing his presence grow slowly nearer, waiting for the time when that enemy of Allah would grow close enough to claim me and fulfil the terms of the diabolical pact made by my father. Because of you’ – he gestured towards me – ‘I have finally been freed from that bond. You honoured your promise to me; you delivered me from evil when I was weak and helpless. My life and my soul are now eternally indebted to you, my brother. I can now complete the final carvings on the nafra in safety, and will be protected from the Ifrit for the rest of my days.’

The Muslim looked about him, and spread his arms. ‘I will, at last, sleep peacefully at night!’ Tears streamed down his face.

We all smiled. I laughed warmly, and deeply regretted my earlier feelings towards him. He was a good man. Maybe two warriors separated by race and faith could become friends after all? Maybe even brothers?

Melchisedek Tob, Benito and I had agreed not to tell Khaled of his possession by the Patriarch, and the subsequent loss of the Shalat, but he had already noted that the sword was not by my side. Despite our better judgement, we explained what had happened. Never had I seen such a rapid transformation, such a swift deterioration in a man. Upon learning of the Shalat’s fate his face turned to a mask of despair. He wailed and tore at his clothes, crying ‘all is lost, all is lost!’

Tob comforted him, and explained that it was not his fault. ‘The Patriarch is a coward’ he said soothingly. ‘You were already wounded and vulnerable. You were an easier path to Alaric than any other; he sensed your weakened state and used you as a vessel to reach the Shalat.’

‘Then he was successful’ wailed Khaled. ‘The sword is lost and with it – all hope!’

‘No’ I replied firmly. ‘The rabbi will come with us to Azazel’s prison, and use his powers to fight the Patriarch. There is still hope my friend. All is not lost.’

Khaled was confused at this revelation, and remonstrated with the rabbi. But Tob was adamant – he would accompany us to the very end if needs be. We talked a while longer, and allayed some of Khaled’s fears, but my own heart felt weak and thin. If I had gone some way to convince the Muslim that the flame of hope still burned, in my own mind’s eye I saw it splutter and die.

Exhaustion was writ across all our faces, and we slept through the afternoon. My body, which was mangled and beaten from recent battles, sorely needed rest. My dreams were free of omen or import, save for the last, which caused my heart to pound and my eyes to spring open. The dream simply consisted of two words, whispered by a sibilant female voice, as though its owner were kneeling and placing her strange lips next to my ear. ‘Alaric… bachiyr’ were the two words hissed into my sleep. They were the same words that had been spoken to me all those years ago, during my investiture at the de Constantino chapel. I sat up and saw that the afternoon sun was shining through the casket’s trapdoor, turning the interior a rich deep orange. I rolled to one side and felt a shape beneath me. Looking down I thought my eyes were deceive as I saw the Shalat, safe in its scabbard, lying across my cushion.

‘Christ’s blood; miracle upon miracle’ I whispered incredulously, slowly drawing the blade. It was still perfect in every way, whole and untainted just as it had been the hour it slipped from my grasp and plummeted to earth. ‘By our Lady, how can this be?’ I murmured. Then I heard a sound, and turned to see the falcon Qamar, returned to its perch, and eyeing me beadily.

CHAPTER 45

I felt such jubilation at the return of the Shalat that I had sat with it across my lap, waiting for Khaled, Benito and the rabbi to rouse, one by one, and laughed out loud to see the expressions on their faces.

‘Allah the Most Great be praised, the sword has returned’ exclaimed the Muslim, and he immediately said prayers of thanks to his god.

‘How... how can this be?’ spluttered Benito. ‘Is it the same sword? Are you sure?’ he kept asking me the same, despite my affirmations.

Tob said nothing, yet smiled and nodded to himself. I took him to one side and said quietly ‘it is a miracle, is it not, that the sword has been returned?’

‘It is’ he replied, attempting to suppress his mirth.

‘Tell me what you are thinking’ I begged. ‘Your brevity suggests you know more of this matter. Somehow, I am convinced the bird – Qamar – was involved in its return, though I know not how.’

The rabbi smiled again. ‘You could be right, Alaric. You could be right.’ He turned from me and began packing his personal effects.

The mood was one of nervous excitement and restrained optimism. I followed Tob as he busied himself. ‘Now that I have the Shalat, do you still need to accompany us to the Petrovingian camp? Can I not defeat Azazel alone, as Arba had instructed?’

‘You can do nothing alone’ Tob replied, more sternly now. ‘You will need all our help – and others too no doubt. It has already been decided; this old man shall be coming with you, burdensome though I may be. If I can defeat the Patriarch, then Azazel will remain in his prison and we will have no need for the Shalat. If I fail –’ he turned to look at me. ‘If I fail, well… then, your actions will determine all our fates. I would nevertheless do everything in my power to protect you from the Patriarch’s evil while you completed your task.’

I nodded, and he encouraged me to pack my own kit – we would be landing sooner than I thought.

****

Tob’s ship of the sky had begun its descent towards Jerusalem, which was still not visible to us from the air. Khaled turned to the rabbi and said ‘It occurs to me that you would have had no need to land this airborne contraption before now. Do you know how to deliver us to earth safely?’

The rabbi, preoccupied, glanced up, frowning. ‘Of course. I have made all the necessary calculations, though I cannot vouch for the comfort of the landing. That is entirely dependant on the nature of the ground beneath us.’

I glanced out of the casket’s trap door, at the ground below, which flew past at a sickening rate. The falcon Qamar hopped from its perch and landed beside me on the edge of the door. It looked at me, squawked, and cast itself into air. ‘A wise move’ I muttered. We were still well clear of any treetops, but the landscape itself appeared worryingly mountainous. I told the rabbi as much.

‘That is because I intend to bring us down amongst the Judean mountains’ he replied curtly. ‘God willing, we will land just north of the monastery of St Saba, within a few hours trek of Jerusalem. Of course, there is a chance that we will be observed, either by our enemies – who we must pass before we land, or by the city’s own population. We must pray that neither send out patrols to hunt us down. Thus, speed shall be of the essence. We will disembark immediately, set off in haste and travel light. Take only what you must.’

We now skirted the treetops. The heavy casket sheared through trunks and branches, which splintered and snapped; leaves shook angrily, and debris from the ruined foliage below was thrown up through the trap door into the casket. The destruction caused by our inexorable descent was thunderous. Melchisedek Tob secured himself with a length of rope to a corner of the casket and shouted to us: ‘I suggest you take firm hold of something.’

Suddenly, silence returned. Hopefully the woodland we had just ploughed through was now behind us for good. A pause of what seemed like an age – which gave me time to glance at the masks of apprehension on everyone’s faces – was followed by a sudden, violent jolt. Then another, then one more brief silence. Therafter all was chaos and noise. My world spun and lurched with a terrifying momentum; all Tob’s stowed possessions spilled from their housings to form a tempest of pots, cups, plates and lanterns. The cacophony from within was matched by the roar from outside as the heavy oak casket smashed against rock and churned through dirt and dust; the very structure of the thing groaned and warped from the stress and impact of the landing. There cadeafening scream, a savage roar as timber and rock ripped through each other. Then silence. Dust billowed through the casket’s interior. A spoon fell and clattered amongst the debris. I could hear the gasps from others and asked if they were hurt.

‘I have survived once more’ said Khaled, from the opposite end of the casket. ‘Though I seem to be in a permanent state of near-death.’

Benito too was also safe – I could hear him jabbering prayers to the saints.

‘Rabbi, are you injured?’ I asked. The dust had yet to settle, and I could not discern the figure of Melchisedek Tob. There was silence, then a groan, followed by a cough.

‘Yes. I am here’ came the grumbled reply. ‘Despite the circumstances, I think that went rather well.’

I crawled to the opening, peered through, and saw that somehow we were suspended a short distance above the ground; escape required lowering myself through the hatch and dropping to the rocks below. I stooped out from under the shadow of the casket, took a number of steps back, and saw that we had landed in a small valley at the foot of a rocky promontory. The ship’s casket was wedged fast in the midst of a narrow, deep defile, with outcrops above which overhung and afforded the casket good cover. The ship was stuck fast between the two rock faces, which explained how we had come to be suspended above the ground; it also provided us with a swift and useful exit. The immense balloon was slowly deflating, and now resembled a giant, wrinkled plant bulb; it swayed erratically in the crosswinds, nodding crazily, at one point almost folding in half as it bent down to touch the rocky promontory.

One by one my companions emerged. I helped Khaled with the short drop; Benito exited next, throwing our bags before him. The rabbi stood motionless in the casket, looking out at the landscape and wearing a look of incomprehension. It took him an age to leave what had been his home for the last six years. He tentatively lowered one foot into the air, then the other. I came to help him but he waved me away. Eyes closed and sweat on his brow, he mumbled a prayer and lowered himself onto the strange and unfamiliar landscape. Wearing a strange expression of distaste, he took a step forward and observed his foot as it crunched into the dust, Then he held out an arm – which rested against the rock face – to steady himself. The arm recoiled immediately, and he examined his hand while rubbing the residue of grit between his fingers. It was clear that Tob was extremely uncomfortable in our new surroundings, brought on by his sudden return to the physical world – the realm of corruption and decay. The normal experiences I gave not a care to, assaulted his senses after so much time spent wilfully removed from the earth.

I took his arm. ‘How do you feel? Do you need some time before we leave?’

‘No’ he replied hesitantly, almost to himself. ‘I will find the strength to endure this – let us depart.’

The balloon had now completely deflated and, fortuitously, covered the casket beneath. The huge expanse of crumpled fabric blended with the bleached rocks around it; from a distance, it would almost appear to be a natural feature of the surrounding valley.

We set off, heading northwest towards Jerusalem. At first, we clamred over steep rock-faces, looking for a path as we headed towards a plateau high above us. Rubble underfoot made the climb slow and treacherous and I half-carried Khaled for much of the journey, but eventually we reached the summit and a path was visible in the distance. We strode towards it, though it was nothing more than a goatherd’s track. It was hot and airless, yet as we trekked across the parched landscape, the mountains around us began to part, revealing the treasures that clung alongside the steep gorges in between. Tob spied the monastery of St Saba, hanging precariously to the summit of a nearby mountain, an orderly cluster of hard lines and solid shaped emerging from the chaotic rock face. It was a stunning building – more a fortress than house of God; high walls and heavy buttresses rose from the living rock that surrounded the nest of buildings within. Tiny outbuildings and hermits caves peppered the vicinity, and numerous paths led from the monastery across the mountains, one of which no doubt connected with our own. It was Benito who gestured in the opposite direction: through sloping mountain peaks we could spy in the distance the Holy City, proud and glistening between two valleys. The sight of it made my heart leap. It was the holiest city on earth, where the ancient Temple of Solomon had been founded, where Christ had trod the ground with his disciples, where the Son of God had died, and been raised from death by the Heavenly Father. And it was the city where one day the Messiah would return to proclaim himself king, and install a new Heavenly kingdom on earth. This would be my first visit to that great place, and I regretted that it could not be a happy pilgrimage in more peaceful times.

CHAPTER 46

We trudged on through the mountains, which had slowly begun to give way to rocky, scrubby foothills. Melchisedek Tob seemed to have overcome his previously bemused state and was forging determinedly ahead, with surprising stamina and agility. I asked him how it felt to return to the firm earth after six years of self-imposed exile.

He was sanguine and smiled wryly. ‘To describe it in terms you will understand: it is as though returning to the arms of an old lover, after all care and affection has long since passed. It is a state to be endured, rather than enjoyed.’

I left Tob to his meditations, not fully understanding his reply, but aware that by being here he was experiencing a sort of pain – spiritual if not physical.

We paused briefly, primarily for Khaled’s benefit. Benito appeared nervous, his eyes scanning the bleak horizon.

‘What’s wrong?’ I asked wearily. Despite the fact that our luck had appeared to turn, Benito seemed to possess a knack for pessimism.

‘We are being followed’ he murmured. ‘I am sure of it.’

We all looked about us, squinting to scan the horizon, but could see nothing.

‘Are you sure? What have you seen?’

‘Nothing. I see nothing. But I feel it – at the edges. Here.’ He pointed to either side of his head. ‘Eyes watching.’

Khaled was wincing in pain at his injuries, and had little time for Benito’s vaguimations.

‘Ignore him’ he replied, as ever, to all save Benito. ‘More ramblings of a madman. If we had paid heed to all his warnings, we would not have left Acre.’

Benito said nothing more on the subject, but held back from the rest of us and grumbled to himself.

We approached Jerusalem from the south, and Benito’s grumblings swiftly turned to excited jabbering. He had visited many times before in his younger years, and now pointed out two churches some distance away outside the city perimeter, bounded by a low wall. One was extremely large and impressive, but heavily fortified.

‘There is the church of St Mary’ explained Benito. ‘A very holy place. But only one of many, many in the holy city. It is the place where the messiah appeared to his disciples after the resurrection. Inside is a stone basin where Christ washed the feet of the apostles. The altar marks the place where Thomas felt the wound in Christ’s side. The royal tombs of King David and King Solomon can also be found there.’

Something stirred within me. Whether it was Christian love or mystical awe, I know not. But at that moment I felt the great majesty of that city, and the immense burden of history that it bore. This ancient place was the centre of the world, the beating heart for all those who believed. It was a living, breathing symbol of Christ, a place where every stone was steeped in meaning. No wonder my forefathers spilt their blood to rescue and preserve its sacred heritage from the heathen. I stopped, breathed, and absorbed the vision before me – the afternoon sun bathing Jerusalem’s mist-shrouded towers in its golden warmth.

I turned to Benito, knowing he would understand. ‘I feel it. I feel the mystery of this place. It is the king of all cities.’

He nodded. ‘Yes. Yes. It is a city chosen by God. It is here that he lit the fires of his Law, and from here the flames of his word spread. For it is written: “out of Zion shall go forth the Law and the word of the Lord from Jerusalem.”’

We walked on again, now amongst olive groves and vineyards that peppered the wilderness. Benito pointed to the small chapel beside the church of St Mary. ‘That place contains the table where the Last Supper was eaten. A very holy place.’

I look hard. The door to the larger castle-like church was open, and I spied figures wearing the garb of Muslims moving within its precincts. They were leading horses into the church, and anger rapidly swelled within me. ‘Benito, the infidel are using one of our most sacred sites as a stable for their beasts.’

Then I looked beyond to the city again, and saw sunlight reflected from the gilded Dome of the Rock – the heathen shrine placed rudely atop that most ancient of Jewish sites – the Temple of Solomon. My eyes scanned each dome and tower across the city’s expanse.

‘Every dome’ I muttered in dismay ‘wears a crescent.’

‘The Mameluk Turks now control Jerusalem’ said Melchisedek Tob, who had stepped up beside me. ‘That is why we must exercise the utmost caution from now on. If you or Benito are discovered as Franks, you will be captured and your lives not be spared. If we are stopped, Khaled will speak for us all.’

‘And you – a Jew’ I replied. ‘Will the Turks not kill you also?’

The rabbi shook his head. ‘No. It is one of the great ironies in these times of conflict. But the Muslims have always tolerated our presence in the holy city whenever it has been under their rule. The Christians either slaughtered or banished us, whichever was more convenient.’

Khaled threw me his black kaffiyeh. ‘Wear this. Keep your face hidden, and you may survive.’

‘What about Benito?’ I asked.

‘He can pass as a Sufi.’ he said dismissively. ‘But if we are stopped by guards, none of you should say a word; leave any chatter to myself and Rabbi Tob.’

We all agreed to this plan, and so continued our journey. Giving the church of St Mary a wide berth, we headed northeast towards the Beucayre Gate – the southern-most portal through the outer walls. The sun had now dipped behind the city, leaving a tracery of gilt around those buildings that stood proud of its defences. Travellers were still entering or leaving, and numerous stalls outside the walls continued to sell their wares. The stretch of land between us and the gate was flat, covered with dry grass and scrub. There were few figures traversing that space, and no sign of any militia, so we progressed as informally as possible.

We had been walking through the dust and scrub for a short time when the ground seemed to sag and grow soft. Before I could reason why, my foot punched through the floor, yet I could not feel water, or mud beneath – only air. The others pulled me free and I peered through the hole, but could see nothing but blackness. The stench that rose from the orifice however, was repugnant and I recoiled, gagging.

‘Whatever is down there’ I spat ‘it stinks like a charnel house.’

‘That is exactly what it is’ replied Benito. ‘I would guess that we are standing above the giant charnel house of Akeldarma. It was built by the first crusaders as a place to bury their dead. The hole you fell through – that is where the bodies were thrown down. Some corpses are two hundred years old – no more than dust. Others more recent – the pits have been used for many years. We must be careful. Once a man has fallen through, there is no escape, no way out. He would have to sit and slowly die in the dark, amongst the dead.’

I went cold with fear. ‘Then how do we get safe passage across this place?’ I asked.

Khaled pointed ahead. ‘Do you see the ridges in the grass?’ There were a number of faint earthworks, like parallel plough lines, across the ground. ‘These indicate the brick vaults used to support the roof beneath. If we stay on these ridges we should remain safe.’

Walking in single file, we crossed the treacherous landscape until the lines had faded to nothing and we left the charnel house behind.

Approaching the Beucayre Gate, Benito shouted a warning. ‘There! Look beyond, to the mountains.’

I could see nothing save rock and sky; neither could the others. ‘What have you seen?’

Benito looked at us dejectedly; he knew none would heed him, for there was nothing to see. ‘I saw a man, a distant figure in black. He stood beyond the church of St Mary but…’ His eyes entreated us, to no avail. ‘…But he is now gone.’

Exasperated, I watched Khaled shake his head, mutter something and hobble onwards without looking back.

A few Mameluk guards were stationed beneath the gate’s simple archway, but despite our anxiety they paid us no heed. We passed through unchallenged, along with the day’s remaining stragglers, beggars and merchants, into the holy city. The path before us was wide, and paved with large flagstones. Terraced walls rose up either side, which were surmounted by verandas, arcades, towers and domes. This was the Street of the Armenians. Ahead of us, sitting squat and formidable, was the Cathedral of St James, which Benito informed us was now a monastery; as we passed by, bearded Armenian monks went quietly about their business. On one side were impressive gardens, choked with fruit trees, flowers and greenery. Adjacent to these was the royal palace, once the exquisite abode of the kings of Jerusalem, but now fallen into disrepair at the hands of the heathen. The road bore left and fell to a gentle decline as we progressed towards the Citadel and, beyond that, the sprawling quarters of the Knights Hospitaller. Melchisedek Tob led us at a slow pace, as though he were seeking some half-remembered landmark. Suddenly he picked up the pace and abruptly turned off the main thoroughfare, into a narrow, darkening alley. The well-fashioned stone walls gave way to decaying structures of old masonry and rock, piled high to create precarious barriers between the alley and whatever lay beyond. The path too became uneven and pockmarked, the random cobbles spattered with dirty puddles. We turned numerous corners, each time revealing a narrower, darker alley and taller walls. It was like we were in the midst of a labyrinth, but Tob seemed convinced he knew the way. We saw no other living soul en route. This dilapidated, ancient part of the city had been long abandoned; it had even evaded Jerusalem’s rat population. Yet it seemed to embrace solitude; its ruinous state was out of choice, rather than neglect. We progressed along a filthy backstreet, no more than a channel for waste and ordure, when Tob suddenly stopped and turned to face a narrow gap between two old walls, like a black fissure in a rock face. The rabbi beckoned us in and, looking doubtful, we stepped into the darkness, side on, and slid along the sheer damp walls. With only the dying sun above us for light we made our way along the snicket, with Tob now far ahead. After what felt like an age we heard his disembodied voice speak through the gloom.

‘Make haste’ he called, a thread of excitement in his voice. ‘We have arrived.’

CHAPTER 47

Ahead of us I saw a thin rectangle of orange light. We stumbled towards it and the light grew brighter, expanding until we finally stepped into a small courtyard, surrounded on all sides by steep walls of hewn stone. Great knots of ivy climbed the walls, and in the midst of the courtyard grew an ancient, gnarled cedar. It was bent and misshapen, but still verdant. Many lanterns hung from its branches, casting soft light and gentle shadows around the quadrangle. The wall at the far end of the courtyard rose higher than the others, for it formed one side of a t simple tower. At its base was a solitary doorway, but not a soul was to be seen.

We looked about us in wonder.

The rabbi also surveyed our surroundings, gazing up at the tower before us. ‘This place’ he began proudly, ‘will not be found on any map of Jerusalem. For it does not even exist – not for the uninitiated at least. Some have seen the tower of Ta`Alummah from afar’ – he beckoned to the edifice above us – ‘and wondered how it can be approached. Some have even sought a path to it, but none have succeeded. Those without the right knowledge will become forever lost in the labyrinth that surrounds it. The tower may be glimpsed through lonely alleys or over broken walls, but it will remain out of reach and ignored by the denizens of the city. Yet we stand now amidst one of Jerusalem’s oldest buildings, protected from the prying eyes beyond, and protecting the inhabitants within.’

We all spied movement at the tower-end and turned. A frail figure appeared in the doorway, and then shuffled forward. Tob grinned. ‘My old friend is the present steward of the tower of Ta`Alummah; it is through him that I could lead us here, and gain entrance to this ancient sanctuary.’

The old man appeared cribbed and misshapen, but he was also tanned and youthful of face. Tob walked over to him and kissed him gently on either cheek. The man did the same. He whispered fond greetings to Tob but then turned to us and said aloud: ‘my old friend, you are welcome. But why did you bring these Gentiles here, during this - our most holy time of remembrance?’

Tob took the man’s arm and led him towards the tower. ‘Come Rabbi, we need to discuss matters.’ As the two walked away from us, Tob looked over his shoulder and gestured that we should stay put.

We sat on the stone flags and rested for a while; Khaled even slept briefly. After a time, Tob and the old man re-appeared. They both wore expressions of deep concern. The old man smoothed his grey beard and spoke.

‘My name is Rabbi Ahimasach ben Gad. My dear brother rabbi has informed me of your mission and of the sacrifices made. There will be more to come. Now that I know everything, the rabbi was right to bring you here. This is a place of sanctuary and learning. The library here contains some the most rare and ancient documents from our people’s history. We will be making use of these in the forthcoming ritual – as protection against Azazel’s evil. Come –’

He took us to a table in the courtyard, upon which was laid a basic meal – bread, wine, oil and figs. He looked at us from beneath a heavy brow, ridged with unruly black eyebrows.

‘So, Alaric of Sarafand, bearer of the holy Shalat. I did not think I would see the day when such things came to pass. Yet here we are. And it is right and proper that these things should happen here and now. In this place you are all protected from evil and harmful influences. But you cannot stay. Which is why the rituals of Yom Kippur must be invoked – they will afford you the protection you need as you draw closer to Azazel and the enemies of God. The Yom Kippur rituals will bless you with certain wards against the desert demon; it is the most significant date during our time of Aseret Yemei Teshuva, or Ten Days of Remembrance – the day when we seek redemption for our sins, and when God sets all our fates for the coming year.’ He smiled slightly. ‘It is appropriate then, that our actions here will decide the fate of all – in this world and the next. Tomorrow Rabbi Melchisedek Tob and I will enact the Avodah, or the Temple Service of The Day of Atonement. It is a ritual that was last conducted over a thousand years ago when the Temple at Jerusalem still stood, housing the Holy of Holies where Yahweh himself dwelt. It is a service that should never be revived. And yet…’ He sighed, and looked sideways at Tob. ‘And yet… it is absolutely necessary to fortify you all for the trials to come.’ He stopped to ensure we were all paying attention. When he was satisfied, the rabbi nodded and continued. ‘Amongst the many rituals performed is the lottery of the goats, where one is selected as an offering for our Lord, the other – with the sins of the people heaped upon it – as an offering for the desert demon Azazel. When the time comes, you Alaric will lead the goat for Azazel out into the desert. Only then will we know God’s will for your wider endeavour.’

‘So that is the purpose of the ritual, Rabbi, to seek God’s blessing in our pursuit of Azazel?’ I asked.

Ahimasach nodded. ‘Yes, at least in part. The act will be symbolic. But it will purify you by cleansing you of sin. It will also appease the Demon Azazel, which will in turn help Rabbi Tob to bind the creature to its prison and resist the Petrovingian’s dark magic.’

‘Some of us require cleansing of sin more than others’ I said wryly, referring of course to myself.

The old rabbi smiled gently. ‘Indeed. To properly wield the sword Shalat against the demon you will need to be without sin… Symbolically, if nothing else.’

‘Forgive my ignorance’ interjected Khaled, ‘but is Yom Kippur not celebrated in the first month of your calendar? And are we not now in the seventh month?’

‘That is correct. And it is a concern for me. The rituals of Yom Kippur should only ever be enacted on their proper date; to do otherwise is blasphemy. But we cannot control the timings of the enemy. It is unfortunate that these rites must be invoked now, so near to Passover. It is a great risk. I pray that we do not invoke the wrath of the Lord. But my belief is that it is better for me to ask Him for the protection you need by observing these rituals now, than by not enacting them at all – and leaving you vulnerable to the enemy’s evil.’

‘What can we do to help?’

‘Nothing’ exclaimed the old man. ‘This is a task for myself and Rabbi Tob alone. We will inform you of your contributions in due course.’

And with that the two rabbis went about their business. Khaled, Benito and I were not allowed beyond the courtyard, so we unfurled our sleeping mats and set up camp on the stone flags, in a corner shaded by the quadrangle’s high walls. Tob and ben Gad disappeared for long stretches. Occasionally they would be seen crossing the courtyard in silence, heads bowed in concentration and oblivious to us. Only briefly did Tob break his silence – he approached Khaled and asked him to go into the city and procure livestock for use in the sacrifices.

Khaled departed immediately and, after a short timewhen Benito and I were left to our thoughts, the little hermit turned to me and grabbed my arm. The expression on his wild features was inscrutable, but his grasp was firm enough. ‘Sir knight’ he began, his voice little more than a whisper. ‘I have been a burden on you. My presence has not helped this mission. I think that I have done you no good, though not through any will of my own. But now that we approach the final days, I ask that you set me free. Send me hence and I will carry myself far away, where I can no longer cause harm.’

I looked at him with an air of frustration; Benito had prattled on like this every since I hook him hostage in Acre. ‘You know that is impossible’ I sighed, feigning to speak levelly, but no doubt sounding like a father condescending to his young son. ‘I cannot set you loose in the city. You would attract too much attention. And in truth, I do not think you would survive for more than a day. Also, after the attempt you made on my life, how do I know you can be trusted?’

Benito looked outraged. ‘I would give my life for you! Do not doubt my commitment to your cause. The desert demon must be annihilated.’ He made stabbing movements with a bony hand. ‘But this is why you must let me go, otherwise the outcome may not be what you hope for…’

Once again I refused, more firmly this time. I did not understand his ramblings, but the risk of freeing Benito into a city riddled with enemies was far too high. ‘No Benito. I am sorry my friend, but you must stay here with me; at least for now. That is my last word on this – we will hear no more of it.’

Benito spat in frustration and twisted at his long jerkin, as though about to rip it asunder. Then he threw his hands up in exasperation. ‘Very well then. You surely know what is best for us all. But do not say I have not tried to tell of my doom; do not say “Benito, why did you not warn us of this?”’

I shrugged a reply. More important issues were occupying my thoughts.

CHAPTER 48

In time Khaled returned with a local Jewish boy – the son of a trusted family. The boy held a long stick in one hand, for guiding cattle. Behind him loped a black bull, and behind the bull a pair of white goats. Khaled brought up the rear, anonymous beneath his keffiyeh.

‘How did you get that in here?’ I asked him, gesturing at the bull.

‘The rabbis told me of another route’ he replied. ‘With a wider path.’

I had no idea what to expect from this ritual. But I accepted that is was necessary, despite a gnawing frustration that it might last some hours and delay our journey. I was right. Morning passed into afternoon and evening. There was much burning of incense, Hebrew chanting, changing of robes and ritual cleansing by Tob and ben Gad. One side of the quadrangle provided an entrance into a small synagogue, where the two rabbis spent most of their time. The rest of us were consigned to the courtyard, the cattle included; they were tended by the boy, who fed them, prepared bedding and kept the floor clear of animal ordure.

‘The cattle are looked after better than us,’ I observed.

At sunset the rabbis joined us for another simple meal, but they did not speak. Then they retired to the synagogue for more prayers. Their faint recitation of the ancient ritual continued throughout the night, changing in pitch and timbre as the soft wind carried their strange words here and there across the flags. I did not sleep well, partly due to the uncomfortable sleeping arrangements, and partly as the result of a terrible sense of expectation in my gut, which grew as twisted as a wrung cloth. The bull began lowing and the goats bleating before dawn, followed shortly by the hypnotic dirge of the two rabbis. I sighed, sat up and took a slug of water. I hoped this protracted exercise in spiritual etiquette would do some good.

As the sky above us began to lighten, Tob emerged into the courtyard, scampering towards the boy who was still asleep amongst the straw. Tob shook the boy awake and made urgent gestures at him. The boy leapt up and untied the bull, then led it to the synagogue entrance. Rabbi ben Gad walked out from the building into the first rays of the new day, holding a long and square-ended knife. Never once stopping his barely-audible recital, he placed a hand on the bull’s docile brow and closed his eyes. The bull remained still, save for a flick of the ear or tail. Khaled then leaned across to Benito and me and said ‘the bull is a personal offering to God by the Great Priest. But now you must cover your ears. The rabbi is about to pronounce the Tetragrammaton – the true and sacred name of God, and it is not for our ears to hear it.’ We did as he commanded and observed in silence. Shortly the rabbi’s eyes opened and he addressed the bull. A moment later, with speed and strength that belied his age and decrepitude, he drew the blade across the bull’s throat in one swift, smooth movement. A torrent of blood, more black than red, erupted from the wound and cascaded down onto the white flagstones. Tob reached across with a bowl to capture some of the gouting liquid. As the blood radiated across the courtyard like spilt oil, the bull’s legs buckled; its hooves scraped and slipped in the slick redness and the beast crashed to the floor. It did not move again. The wave of blood continued rolling towards us, finally cresting and coming to a glossy, glutinous halt mere feet from our mats. The two rabbis, their linen robes soaked in gore, withdrew into the darkness.

Shortly, incense billowed from the synagogue. Khaled turned to me. ‘The golden stones from your father’s cell – they are now needed. Please bring them to me.’

I reached into my saddlebag and retrieved them, still wrapped in their original fabric. Khaled gingerly took them from my palm and skirted the edge of the courtyard. The rabbis reappeared in clean garments and Tob took the lots. The two goats were then beckoned forward as the lots were placed in a simple painted box. Rabbi ben Gad incanted over the goats; he selected one of the lots and held it aloft, then did the same with the second. It was strange to see these two objects, coveted by my father and in some ways the only real indication we had of his plans, now being used in their proper fashion, and possibly for the first time in over a thousand years. Khaled, who had returned to our corner, approached me and whispered ‘the goat on the left has been selected as a blood offering for Jehovah by the people – by us; it will be slaughtered just as the bull was. The goat on the right is for Azazel. Melchisedek Tob will tell you what to do next.’

Tob now approached me and spoke softly but with an absolute firmness. ‘The goat that has been selected for sacrifice to the desert demon Azazel is now your responsibility. In days gone by, the Great Priest would lead the goat east out of Jerusalem via the temple’s Nikanor Gate. But for the purposes of the ritual as we conduct it now, you – as bearer of the Shalat - must perform this function.’ I nodded and watched as the boy brought the goat towards me. Tob continued. ‘You must lead the goat out of the city to a place known as Bet Hadudo; it is a rocky precipice. When you get there, wind this around the animal’s horns’ – Tob handed me a long length of red wool – ‘and tie the other end to a rock. You must throw the animal off the cliff-edge; in tradition, as soon as the goat was dashed on the jagged rocks below, the wool would turn white as a sign from Elohim that the sins of the people had been expunged. We can only hope that you receive the same good omen now.’

‘And what will you do while I make this journey?’

‘We will complete the ritual here and then meet you at Bet Hadudo before sunset. Then we can proceed to Azazael’s prison in the knowledge that God is with us.’ Tob smiled briefly, then turned to look at the goat. He laid his hands upon it and muttered a prayer. ‘Go now’ he commanded. ‘The boy will lead you out of the city.’

I stowed a few items in my saddlebag, nodded my farewells and, taking note of Khaled’s advice to remain discreet, wore my hood as I followed boy and animal back into Jerusalem.

We took a different route into Jersualem, but one that seemed more convoluted than the first. The boy more or less ignored me – but he chattered to the goat almost incessantly, gripping the length of rope to which it was attached, pulling and poking it to ensure it trotted in the right direction. I remained some distance back, keeping one eye on the boy and another on the streets. Before long the bustle of the city began to seep through the morning air and the high walls of the alleys we traversed, and in time we suddenly turned into a busy street cluttered in awnings and clotted with all manner of human traffic. There was a strong military presence in the city – mainly Turks, but also Armenians and Arabs; I even spied a few Eastern warriors of the type familiar to Khaled, and some Hindis of the Sanskrit peoples. No-one paid anyone else particular attention, so preoccupied were they with their own endeavours, so I took a handful of deep breaths and focussed on my own journey. The narrow lanes, vaulted and arched above us, gave way to a wider boulevard as we approached the jumble of domes and towers that was the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, where Christ himself had been buried and then rose from death. I vowed that one day I would return here as a pilgrim and worship at the Lord’s own tomb. There was little time to admire the wondrous building, but I momentarily stood in awe of the holy place. It was an error. As I turned back, I could no longer see the boy amidst the crowd. I looked to and fro from one unknown face to another, and broke into a run. The street terminated at a junction; to the east rose the gilded Dome of the Rock, and I guessed the boy would take this route. I looked about frantically and was about to follow that same path when something made me start. From amongst the sandstone and bobbing heads I spied a splash of colour, two slashes of orange moving through the crowd towards me. I was perversely compelled to wait – as though routed to the spot – in order to confirm my worst fears; sure enough, as they grew closer, I recognised the unmistakeable headdresses and flame-orange attire of the Petrovingians. I snapped out of my paralysis and began to move – swiftly but not so fast as to attract unwanted attention. I weaved in and out of the crowds, occasionally glancing over my shoulder, but mainly scannlleys and side streets for the boy and that blasted goat. I saw what might be a disturbance ahead, then heard raised voices and high-pitched chatter above the throng. Growing closer, through the forest of bodies I saw the boy remonstrating with a fat dark-skinned man in a filthy jellabiya. As I approached the man grabbed the boy’s arm and shook him violently; I could see he had already seized the goat.

CHAPTER 49

‘What’s going on here?’ I asked, addressing the boy. He looked up at me and, recognising who I was, exclaimed with relief. ‘This man is from the cattle market’ he yabbered. ‘He said I have stolen his goat. He wants to take the goat and then chop my arm off. I told him the goat is not his – he is mistaken. But he won’t listen.’

‘This goat is not yours’ I said, turning to the man. ‘It is mine.’ I jabbed at my own chest. ‘Mine. Not yours.’

The man’s watery, bloodshot eyes barely registered my presence. He pushed the goat behind him and spat through his whiskered face, then growled at the boy. ‘This is my goat. My goat. Are you calling me a liar? I will cut both your arms off.’

I turned to take the man by his shoulders, to talk some sense into him, but as I did so he dropped the boy and grabbed my hood, pushing it back. ‘Do not touch me! Do not touch me!’ he yelled. ‘Who are you? I will cut your head off. You are both thieves.’

I was now exposed. At that moment I made the error of turning towards the advancing Petrovingians, who were no more than a few yards away. Their pale, piercing eyes made contact with mine. I could see their eyes widen as recognition dawned. Then they surged forward, drawing their blades. The man twisted my cape in an iron grip; he was still jabbering and spitting. I had mere moments to act. Reluctantly I drew the Shalat and sliced it across the man’s enormous belly. Before he was even aware of it, I had turned the street into an abbatoir - his own blood and intestines splashed onto the floor like angry eels. He screamed, still clinging to me. I punched him in the face, grabbed the goat and handed it to the boy, who was himself yelling in fear and horror. I clasped his little face between two hands: ‘take the goat and run. Meet me at the Gate of Jehosephat. Go now. Run. Run!’ I pushed him away and finally he scampered off, the bleating goat in tow.

There was a commotion all around me. The man had slipped in his own offal and was screaming through a bloodied mouth, grabbing at the hem of my surcoat. Onlookers were coming to his aid and eyeing me with threatening looks. I made it clear I had a blade and pushed past them, then broke into a run. Stealing a quick look I saw the Petrovingians cut a swathe through the melee with their own curved blades, causing blood to flow from innocent limbs like spilt wine.

I immediately turned into a narrow alley and, running as fast as my searing lungs and burning legs could muster, attempted to get my bearings. I was now heading south, towards the city’s main markets. If I reached the southern-most line of Jerusalem’s defensive wall, I could leave the city at that point and circle back round to the Gate of Jesosaphat at the eastern wall, where hopefully the boy would be waiting. The alleys quickly emptied of traffic as the markets gave way to domestic trappings: washerwomen, dogs, cooks and children. I stole another look over my shoulder and saw nothing, so slowed to a stop. I gasped for breath and wiped my brow, looking ahead through the zig-zag of shadows thrown by the high alley walls. Ahead was a drinking fountain before a small olive grove. My legs were weak as I stepped along the cobbles. And at that point the two Petrovingians emerged from a side-alley I had not noticed. I sighed in dismay. ‘You bastards’ I muttered. ‘I thought I’d lost you.’

They were on me like rabid dogs, hacking with a crazed abandonment. I parried most of their blows but one caught me across the shoulder. The Shalat coped with these attackers well; it sang as it arced through the air, almost weightless in my hand, and bit deeply into the under-arm of one; the Shalat followed through and sliced the arm off at the joint, rising upwards and connecting with the knight’s skull above his ear. The blade sheared cleanly through skull and brain, causing the warrior to pirouette and collapse against the wall a disfigured ruin. The second warrior observed me with cold, deep-set eyes. I circled him, keeping him at a distance with the point of my weapon.

‘Remove your scarf’ I said. ‘Let me see your face. Have you lost your jaw, like the others of your kind I slaughtered?’

He did not reply, save for a feral growl and a stab of his falchion-like weapon. I tapped his blade away then sliced at his head, making contact with his face and slicing through the tightly-bound orange silk that obscured his features. The scarf fell open like a flap of skin to reveal the jawless face beneath.

‘So. The same as your friends. It is a strange fashion, but it saves you from talking. A shame – there is probably some knowledge I could torture out of you.’

The knight charged then, catching me off-guard and forcing a retreat into the olive grove. Behind the trees was a small chapel, the door of which was open. I stepped back into the cool interior and cast a brief look round; the place was deserted and not a little dilapidated; upkeep of the churches was abandoned when the Mameluks arrived. The Petrovingian piled in after me, causing pigeons in the crumbling rafters to flap frenziedly. I wanted to dispatch this foe as quickly as possible and get to the boy, but the knight was a fierce opponent. His attacks were strong and quick; I had to move swiftly around the uneven flagstones to avoid his blade. I found his silent, jawless demeanour disconcerting; only his frenzied stare and the bared row of teeth in his upper jaw belied any kind of emotion. I felt an urge to fill the silent pauses between bouts with taunts and questions. But as the knight circled me, moving across and in front of a worn stone altar, the Shalat – almost with a will of its own – lashed out in a flurry of lethal blows, forcing the Petrovingian to stagger back under their force. In the musty half-light he stumbled onto the altar as the Shalat stuck him from above, the twin points of the blade piercing his neck, either side of his larynx. He thrashed and gurgled – an awful, wet sound – and blood foamed and spat from his neck. I withdrew my blade, which hummed with a kind of righteous anger the like of which I had never known – I could feel it coursing into me through the contact between hand and blade. The enemy was pale in death, draped over the altar like an obscene sacrifice. I rolled his dead weight onto the floor and was amazed to see, amongst the blood, two holes where the Shalat had penetrated the altar stone. In all the years I had owned the blade, only now was I becoming aware of its powers; it was truly a weapon of unearthly provenance.

I ran out of the chapel and along the alley, beyond which finally emerged the high curtain wall of Jerusalem. The fortified gatehouse ahead was relatively quiet and unguarded. I raised my hood and proceeded through it unchallenged, to emerge into the bright sunlight and wide expanse of desert beyond. Amongst the scrub and olive groves were a few merchants and travellers, but none of them paid me any heed. I began to follow the immense curtain wall round to the eastern-most gate, hoping that the boy and the goat would be found there. At the southeastern corner of the wall the track rose up a hill and turned north. From here I could spy in the distance the huge arched entrance to the city that was the Gate of Jehosaphat. I had no way of telling who the figures that thronged the entrance might be. But my eyes were drawn to a nearer gatehouse – the double-arched Golden Gate, which provided access directly into gold-domed Templum Domini – the sacred site of the first Temple of the Lord, where the Jewish ritual of Yom Kippur was originally enacted over a thousand years ago. Before the gate I saw a small figure wave, heard a shrill appellation, and knew it was the boy. I smiled and waved back, trotting towards him as the morning sun warmed my neck. The gentle winds blew fresh breath into my tired lungs and, for a brief moment, I was calm and peaceful. Then the ground gave way. Amidst soil and brick I fell into darkness. The landing winded me, but I was not hurt. I could see nothing, save for the ragged hole amidst the turf through which I had fallen. But the foul stench that rose from my surroundings was like the breath of Samael himself, and I wondered if I had fallen into Jerusalem’s decrepit sewage system. Fumbling for my saddlebag, I found some flint and tinder, tore a scrap of linen from my surcoat and lit it. The brief illumination made me wish I’d remained in darkness and ignorance. Corpses, in varying states of composition, covered the floor; they had provided the cushion for my fall. I realised that, like an idiot, I had fallen into the giant charnel house of Akeldarma, where denizens of the city had been disposing of their dead for generations. Indeed, I had almost stumbled into it on entering Jerusalem, when my foot had disappeared into the grass that hid the openings in the roof, through which corpses were disposed. And now Benito’s warning returned to me, as though in mockery: ‘Once a man has fallen through, there is no escape, no way out. He would have to sit and slowly die in the dark, amongst the dead.’ That little bastard was indeed a bad omen. I cast the scrap of burning cloth about me. Cadavers old and new lay here: those at the bottom of the heap had liquefied or turned to gruel for the worms over the decades; above these was a twisted jumble of rotting bones; more recently deposited were black and half-rotted corpses, still bloated and fleshy but gnawed to anonymity by rats and insects; lastly, immediately beneath me, lay the newly dead – naked or still draped in funerary shrouds, skin grey and lifeless but with eyes and tongues glistening and whole. I turned aside and gagged, wondering if it was at all possible to escape from this terrible place.

CHAPTER 50

A face appeared at the opening above. It was the boy. ‘Hallo. Hallo sir. Are you alive?’ he asked.

‘Yes, yes I am!’ I yelled back. There was no echo, despite the size of the vaults. ‘You must help me. Do you have a length of rope? Something you can throw down so I can climb out?’

The boy’s eager face frowned. He disappeared briefly then returnedis is the rope I used to lead the goat’ he said, dangling the thick twine over the hole.

‘Hold one end and throw the rest down to me. Then I can see if it is long enough.’

He did so, but the drop was at least thirty foot and I doubted it would reach. It did not. I could just reach one end with my fingertips, but this was before the boy had found something to secure the rope to – which may be some distance away. I sighed. Then it dawned on me that the length of wool in my own saddlebag was at least thirty foot. It would never support my weight as a single strand, but folded back on itself five or six times, it might just be strong enough. I roughly weaved the wool and clumsily secured one end to the rope.

Squinting, I looked up at the boy again. ‘I need you to tie your end to something that can bear my weight. Can you see anything? A rock perhaps?’

The boy nodded and departed from view. I squatted amidst the decay and waited. A slight tremor beneath my feet made me start. More of an undulation, as though something was alive amidst the putrefaction. A sigh seemed to expel from the collective rotting lips of every corpse in the charnel house, and slowly, in the darkness I began to sense the movement of limbs. I fumbled for more tinder and clumsily struck another length of cotton. I waved it into the foul darkness and the stuttering flame illuminated a face, decayed and misshapen from years of mortification. Without eyes and lips, it grimaced blankly and reached out towards me. I felt other limbs nearby; ruined fingers and diseased mouths all around. The dead had returned to life. What blasphemous sorcery was this? I unsheathed my blade and swept it in wide arcs, slicing through soft bones and withered flesh. I called up to the boy. ‘Have you secured the rope? Have you found an anchor?’ There was no reply. I waited then called again, still hacking all around. ‘Boy! Boy! Are you there?’ I tried to moderate my yelling, to stop it becoming a scream. Still no answer. I could feel myself sinking, being drawn down into the liquefying remains of the dead. And who knew how deep that well of blight ran? There could have been a hundred feet of filth beneath my feet. As the bile of desperation sloshed in my gut, the boy appeared once more. ‘I am sorry sir, but there is nothing nearby to tie the rope to. There is a tree but it is not so close.’

‘Tie it!’ I yelped. ‘Just tie the rope to that tree. Quickly now boy, make haste – and let me know when it is done.’

The boy nodded again and departed, then stuck his head back over the hole. ‘Are you safe down there Master Knight?’ he asked. ‘Is someone with you? I can see strange movements…’

‘Yes yes yes!’ My voice was tight with panic. ‘All is well here. The rope boy, the rope!’

As the boy departed I could see the rope rise up towards the hole in the vaults. ‘Not too far’ I whispered, but by the time its ascent had halted, it was a good three feet above my head.

The boy returned. ‘I have tied the rope to the tree. I pray it will hold fast.’

I cursed, jumping and grappling for the rope, but to no avail – it was out of reach. The half-dead creatures around me clawed at my garments. I sliced and stabbed furiously with the Shalat and severed meat fell to the boggy for with a wet splash, but more pustulant fingers rose out of the mire to replace them. I had one remaining option available and began the laborious process of wading the short distance across the room of the charnel house towards a wall. The sea of entrails and decaying matter was like glue, but finally I was able to run my outstretched hands over what felt like brickwork. I re-sheathed the Shalat and searched for usable handholds between the bricks, then hauled myself upwards out of the pool of gore with all the strength I could muster. I kicked out as I climbed, connecting with putrid flesh, and heard ancient bones snap in the darkness. Gasping in the thick, foul air I carefully clawed my way past another course of brick to the point where I was now level with the rope. My fingers stretched for it but it was mere inches out of reach. I cursed again. Below me I heard a wretched sound and saw a face, still bound in the scraps of a death shroud, rise towards me. It bared its rotted teeth and made for my leg. At that moment I lunged for the rope, scrabbled and grabbed it with no grace at all, and swung crazily through space, suspended above the writhing mass of dead things in the darkness. Pale claws still reached out, plucking at the air, but my eyes were on the hole above. Hand over hand I climbed, and it grew closer and closer. I prayed a constant entreaty that the rope would hold. And as I climbed I could feel the rope being hauled upwards also, making the process of escape quicker still. Gasping, soaked in sweat and slick with filth I climbed out of the blackness and into the sun. I rolled onto the fresh grass and sucked down sweet lungfuls of fresh, clean air. The boy sat nearby with the goat at his feet, and next to him squatted Benito, the rope clasped tightly in his scrawny hands. I lay gasping and retching, wiping the fetid black muck from my clothes.

‘By our Lady, that will haunt my dreams for years to come’ I mumbled, reeling. I asked for water and the boy handed me a flask. I drank a deep draught and then retched – the stink of death and decay on my clothes was overpowering. God received my thanks then, for securing my escape from the charnel house. My skin crawled as I imagined the fate of anyone who remained trapped amongst the corpses. Yet the Petrovingian Patriarch’s hand had clearly been at work; none other could have roused those dead souls and animated their decaying limbs. His power and influence was truly terrifying. Khaled’s attempt on my life; the Knights of Dudael; the Petrovingians who tracked me since I left Acre; and now this; all of these things had been decreed by the Patriarch to bring about my ruin. How many more weapons were at his disposal? It gave me no solace that I had survived until now. The Patriarch was a determined foe, and as I grew closer to him, so his powers seemed to increase. I would be lucky to survive to the end of my mission; if nothing else, the Patriarch’s assaults showed just how keenly he desired my death, and possession of the the Shalat. I hoped Rabbi Tob’s own knowledge would protect me.

I lay in the sun for some time, taking down lungfuls of fresh air, trying to purge my mind of the charnel house’s horrors.

‘Benito, what – what are you doing here?’ I asked, lying on the floor, eyes closed.

‘I escaped Master Knight, when no-one was looking. I did not want to harm the Jew’s ritual so I left the secret tower and found my own way into the city. Then I found the boy, and now I find you.’

I nodded, convinced now that Benito’s claim as a harbinger of bad luck did hold a grain of truth. Good fortune had certainly deserted me long ago.

After a time, when I had grown calmer, I stood up and spoke to the boy. ‘Which way to the precipice? The place called Bet Hadudo?’

The boy beckoned due east. ‘Stay on that path. Then the path forks. Take the right-hand way.’ I nodded, smiled and thanked him for all his help. Released from his duties and a few bezants richer, he trotted back to the city.

After leashing the goat, Benito and I took the journey east, away from the holy city and out into the empty desert. I explained briefly what had happened during the journey to the city gate and in the charnel house.

‘This is the work of the Petrovingian Patriarch’ I said flatly. ‘I am sure of it. He has tried to thwart us from the outset. The net is closing. He knows where we are and what we are doing, and he is marshalling all his powers against us. And believe me, his arm reaches far.’ I shrugged. ‘But I am resigned to what may happen. It is in God’s hands now.’

CHAPTER 51

Benito stared at the dusty track as we continued into the wilderness. He did not speak. ‘Benito, why so silent?’

The thin, ragged hermit was more cowed than usual. He would not look at me as I spoke. Yet he was clearly troubled, and appeared to desperately want to tell me something.

He stopped walking and finally looked up, his dark eyes radiating a kind of muted anguish. ‘I am sorry Master Knight’ he muttered, his eyes now filling with tears. ‘But none of this is in God’s hands. I wish it were not so, but we are outside His grace.’

‘How can you say that?’ I replied, perplexed. ‘You – a man of God – who has shown more devotion than the Pope himself.’

‘A lifetime of devotion could not undo the sin I bear!’ he wailed. ‘I have cursed this journey from the outset. It is I and none other that have caused us these trials; I have put us beyond the reach of God’s love. Because of this –‘

He grabbed at his long, tattered smock and pulled, wrenching it apart. It tore down the centre, revealing his painfully thin torso beneath. And upon the exposed skin, covering every inch, was a mass of script. He collapsed to the floor, sobbing. ‘I tried to warn you! I told you I should not come with you, that I would bring misfortune and death. It is because of these marks, carved into my skin by the Muslim fiends!’ He clawed at his chest. ‘These scars – they are a permanent malediction. I am a living curse!’

At first I could not fathom what Benito meant. I was shocked at the sight of his mutilated body, but more shocked still by his revelation that all our misfortune was because of him. ‘I do not understand. These marks are tattoos of a sort, are they not? How did you come by them my friend?’

Benito shook his head and collapsed into the dust, sobbing. ‘I wish that is all they are. But they are much more. They are a terrible affliction I have borne for years.’ He then told of how, as a younger man, he had been the prior at a small village near Tyre. One day a party of Turkish marauders attacked the community; the Christians hid Benito in a cellar, knowing full well that, as a priest of Christ, he would not be spared by the heathen. But a Jew, fearing retribution on his own family, revealed to them his hiding place. Benito was taken and imprisoned by the Turks, kept chained in the dark and fed on rotting scraps. Occasionally he was taken from his stinking cell and tortured, ancient spells carved into his flesh with blade and ink. Over the years his body became a scroll for all manner of curses. I had no doubt that the pain inflicted on him, along with the isolation and other privations he endured, pushed his mind to the brink of sanity. In time the Turks freed him. They dressed him in a ragged smock and cast him from their fortress, leaving the poor wretch to survive in a world that, for the previous decade, had been denied him. Benito did not know why he was released; I suspected later that it was because they wished for him to re-join a Frankish community and, in so doing, spread his curse amongst the Christians as a single rotted apple corrupts the whole barrel. He wandered throughout Outremer, starved and half-mad, shunned by all until he arrived at Acre. There, he crept into the Templar compound and simply took up residence in a spare cell at the order’s hermitage. Knowing the dark potency of his strange burden, he thereafter lived the quiet and lonely life of a hermit, devoted to prayer and contemplation. In order to protect others from his curse, a life of total isolation became his final punishment. At least until I arrived and stole him away. I wondered whether that in itself was chance or fate, whether I had been destined to abduct this man and, if so, whether the Petrovingian Patriarch had engineered it. It chilled me to think that, from the beginning, he had been manipulating events.

‘I fear the enemy has been working through me’ cried Benito. ‘The Petrovingian witch-lord has been using me as a vessel, channelling his evil through me as a way to reach you. I have felt him, his sorcery tracing the lines of these infidel markings on my skin, reaching out from this accursed script to strangle your hope and your strength. I tried to warn you. I tried. I would have told you of my affliction, but I could not make you listen. You always ignored me. There was never time…’

His voice trailed off, and he stared into the dust. It was my fault that things had come to this – my pride and haste that prevented me from listening to Benito’s entreaties. Rather than allow him to speak I had cut him short, belittled him, even wished him harm. But still, if Benito was responsible for all the misfortune I had endured, then I would indeed wish him gone from me. Or dead even. Nothing else could jeopardise the mission. I would kill him myself if I had to.

‘I am sorry Master Knight’ he sniffed.

‘Don’t apologise. If anything it is I who have done you a disservice. Would that I had listened to you when I had the chance.’

‘You see now why I must leave? Your mission – so near it’s end. I have to go. Maybe I can divert the Patriarch’s evil. So do not stop me. I must go now, before the others arrive.’

I nodded. ‘Very well. It is perhaps for the best. I will not make you stay. Where will you go?’

‘As far from you as possible.’ He smiled wanly. ‘I wish for you to succeed. And for your enemies to fail. But for that to happen, I must travel a long distance. That will be my plan. Do not fear, you will not see me again.’ He pulled his torn smock abhis frail shoulders.

‘Goodbye Benito. I pray that God will keep you safe, and that one day, when all this is over, we may meet again.’

‘Yes. I wish that too. May Christ be with you Master Knight.’ He turned and left me, shuffling along the dusty track like a stray dog. It was a pathetic sight and I pitied him greatly. His life had been one of pain and torment, and I had done nothing to amend that. I watched until he was out of sight, and then led the goat along the road to Bet Hadudo.

My heart was weighed down by Benito’s sad tale. I supposed I would miss him. He was a royal nuisance much of the time, but with good reason: I had wrenched him from his life of quiet contemplation into a maelstrom of blood and chaos; that in itself would be enough to justify far worse behaviour. But now that I knew the truth of his condition, it explained his fear and hatred towards Jews and Muslims. His mistrust of Tob, and the antagonism he showed towards Khaled, now seemed somewhat justified. But I admitted to myself that I had grown fond of him. Perhaps he also found a way to forgive me for his abduction. I suddenly felt very lonely. It was the first time I had been truly alone for some weeks. I worried that Benito would not survive long in the desert by himself. I wondered even if he would try to take his own life, whether his plan was to curl up amidst the dunes and invite Death to come and relieve him of a troubled existence. For a moment, I thought about going after him, but the goat bleated and I was drawn back to the present, and to my immediate concerns. Besides, to pursue Benito was utterly foolish – to bring him back would probably be the death of me. Nevertheless, it felt that with Benito now gone the camaraderie I shared with my companions was beginning to fracture; the bonds that united us were weakening, and I wondered if this was also part of the Petrovingian’s ambition.

I paused on the track then, and sat for a while. Events had overtaken me and I needed to gather my thoughts. My father, the Petrovingians and the Knights of Dudael were now camped no more than a half-day from here, at the Templar monastery of St John, next to the Dead Sea. The journey was almost over; a reckoning was due. I drew the Shalat from its scabbard and studied it; I had owned the blade for much of my life, but now it was new and unfamiliar. ‘You are the root of this misadventure’ I muttered. ‘Why me? How did I become caught up in this madness?’

CHAPTER 52

My thoughts turned then to my father, who I had not seen for over a year, and who had not been present for large portions of my life, although his influence was always felt. I reflected on a distant memory, just after the Shalat had been delivered to me by Arba’s minions, while I resided at Hugh de Constantino’s estate. I was a mere boy then, with no knowledge of what would befall me later in life. On my seventeenth birthday, my father arrived in Cyprus with a small retinue, with the intention of taking me to Acre where I would be initiated into the Templar brotherhood. He approached Hugh’s estate on horseback in the early afternoon hours, a plume of dust cutting a swathe across the gentle rolling hills of Kantara. Hugh, his knights and I waited beyond the estate’s fortified walls, watching as the mounted entourage drew nearer. My father was riding a fine silver palfrey; he sat sturdy and proud in the saddle, bald-headed, eyes fiery beneath a heavy brow, ash-coloured beard spilling onto his brilliant white surcoat. eart turned somersaults like a trobadour. He drew up in front of us, looking massive and invincible, glowering down at us from his sweat-sheened mare. The four white-clad Templars behind him were equally imposing, one carrying the Templar’s rippling standard, all sitting as impassive and silent as angels on their snorting mounts.

My father, stony-faced, looked about him, then surveyed the group at his feet. ‘Where is my son, Alaric of Sarafand?’ he demanded. I stepped forward. Immediately his face creased into a wide smile.

‘Hello father’ I said.

In one smooth movement he was out of the saddle, standing in the dust and drawing me to him with powerful arms. ‘My son. It has been ten years since I last laid eyes on you. I did not recognise you.’ He held me at arm’s length and scrutinised my frame. ‘You were a boy then. Now you’re a man, and a fine example to boot.’

‘He is also a knight, and has been for one full year’ added Hugh.

My father turned to him. ‘Hugh, I will forever be in your debt for the care you have shown the boy while I fought for God, against the infidel.’ They embraced warmly.

‘Ranulph,’ continued Hugh. ‘Alaric has been enfeoffed to me for the prescribed term, and he has served me well. The vassalage is now transferred to the Templars, as was agreed.’

My father nodded, then turned to look at me. ‘Do you hear that boy? Within a day you will be a Templar, praying and fighting alongside your father, as such things were meant to be. Are you ready to battle with the heathen and kill in God’s name?’

‘I am my Lord. It is my destiny’ I replied pompously.

My father smiled broadly. ‘Good.’ He turned to Hugh. ‘Would that we had longer to talk’ he began, ‘but time is short. Our galley sails for Acre before sunset. Can you have everything made ready for a swift departure?’

‘Of course’ Hugh replied. He began issuing orders and the estate set about preparing for my leaving. Amidst the flurry of activity, my father, the Templars, Hugh and I sat in a courtyard shaded by olive trees and ate a simple meal. The news from Outremer was not good. All the military orders had suffered severe losses at the hands of the Muslim Turks – the Mameluks. Knights from Europe were being drafted in. Every spare man at arms was needed to hold back the infidel horde. We sat in silence for a time. I observed my father – his scarred face and head, his broad shoulders and huge frame, and briefly he looked haggard – cowed, drawn and defeated. But then he stretched, flexing his massive frame, and again looked strong and forbidding. He stared down at the bread in his hands, which were scarred and calloused. Here was a man of war, come from another world; his whole body and spirit radiated a crude, violent confidence I had never properly encountered. The other Templars too wore the same brutal but calm demeanour. They seemed to me to be more than men – they were above the rest of us; they cared not for our petty concerns and trifles; they were beyond normal morality. A vein in my father’s sun-burnt temple spasmed. Beneath the thick eyebrows his deep-set eyes raged and burned. Yet he was inscrutable. I had no idea what this massive, brutal warrior-monk was thinking, or what he had seen. Then quickly he rousedhis reverie and looked at me. I started.

‘Word reached me of a unique sword that had come into your possession’ he said. I cast a glance at Hugh, who looked troubled. ‘I would like to see this weapon.’ I sought out my squire, Nicolas, and bade him bring forth the sword. He did so. My father took it from his grasp, unsheathed it and examined the virgin blade, not yet baptised in heathen blood. The other Templars suddenly looked towards it, eyes wide. It was the first expression I had seen pass their features since their arrival. Not one flicker of emotion betrayed my father’s reaction however. He studied the sword long and hard then suddenly resheathed it, placed it on the table and stared directly at me.

‘How did you come by it?’

‘I-it was a… a gift. It… appeared one night.’

‘Do not lie to me boy!’ My father’s face suddenly reddened in anger. ‘This is no ordinary weapon. It is one of the finest blades I have ever seen. Why would anyone give such a thing to you, a mere boy? Answer me! Where did you find it? Where did you take it from?’

I was terrified. I could not speak.

‘You stole it! That is the truth of the matter. No son of mine shall be a thief and go unpunished.’ His huge hand lunged at me, grabbed my hair and lifted my entire body onto the table. Plates and cups clattered to the cobblestones; I screamed and cried. Hugh stood up and grabbed my father’s arms.

‘Leave him be Ranulph! What the boy says is true. I will vouch for him. I was there.’

My father’s iron grip relaxed and I crawled back to my seat, bruised and humiliated. Hugh regaled him with the entire story, during which time my father sat impassive, arms crossed, staring through us to the courtyard wall beyond. When the tale was over he said nothing for some time. Finally his eyes moved first to Hugh, then to me. He spoke slowly and deliberately, a faint look of disgust on his face. ‘Do you expect me to believe this nonsense? Do you take me for a fool? Am I such a dullard in your eyes Hugh? No-one lies to me. You two are keeping something from me, this much I know. Just pray I never find out the truth.’

‘I assure you that what I have said is the truth’ replied Hugh quietly. ‘I swear on the book that it is all true.’

My father pursed his lips, rubbed his hooked nose and stroked his scarred, bald head with a huge hand. ‘So be it. I will accept your little tale for now. But God knows, no-one bestows a sword like that to a boy, without wanting something in return. Throw it away, otherwise mark my words – you will be in the debt of another, and there will be a heavy price to pay.’ Then he grunted, stood up and left to attend his horse.

Nicolas – my squire – my horses and other chattels had been assembled, and most of the estate had now gathered at the gate in order to bid me farewell. My father was impatient – the disagreement with Hugh had soured his mood. Nevertheless, I took time to thank those who had become like a family to me over the years. Some of the women wept, including Alla Magdalena who, through tear-reddened eyes, bestowed upon me a lock of her hair. My heart ached to leave such an idyllic home, but I had outgrown it. My fate lay in Outremer. I thought that in leaving I would be taking their hopes and dreams with me; I was their champion, or so I presumed.

If only I knew then what was to befall me, I would not have been such a haughty, indolent oaf. In those carefree times I was happy to while away the summer, waiting until God decreed that my great destiny should be fulfilled. But the reality of my destiny was far removed from any of the dreams I had harboured as a young man. I wished I had listened to my father’s words, now so prescient. I should have cast the sword aside, for the debt I now owed the Repha’im was worse than anything I could have foreseen in even my darkest nightmares.

****

By late afternoon I had reached the rocky precipice known as Bet Hadudo. I was so caught up in my own thoughts and worries that I had barely noticed the time pass. Not a single soul had passed me on the track. The dusty road had turned sharply north and at this point I left it, for ahead lay the cliff edge I sought. The drop was not sheer, but a man would not survive the fall. Boulders and rocky outcrops littered the descent. I glanced at the goat, which returned my stare with the benign, blank expression of all dumb animals. The setting sun was behind me, casting long warm shadows across the desert floor. I looked west from my vantage point.

I drew the goat near and tied the length of red wool around its neck, and recalled the Rabbi ben Gad’s pronouncements – that according to Judaic lore the wool would turn white once the goat had been sacrificed, to indicate that Jehovah had absolved the sins of his people. I did not know what to expect now. Apparently the ritual had not been performed for a thousand years. In truth I expected nothing. It would take more than a goat to absolve my sins. I may wield a holy weapon, but it did not mean that God would be generous with his blessings.

There was no further debate. I took the wool and tied the other end to a large rock shelf. Then picked up the goat, which bleated furiously, and tossed it over the cliff-edge. The animal tumbled through the evening air briefly then dashed on the razor-sharp formations below. Its spine snapped; legs and head tumbled wildly until finally, amidst a blossom of dust, it lay still. I examined the now-taut wool, still secured to the rock shelf. Nothing. The whole ritual had been a waste of time. I slumped against a boulder and drew my hands through the sand. What now? God was silent. He cared not for our mission. I thought about Tob and Khaled. They both expected a miracle I was sure, but they would be sorely disappointed. The sun now burned a fierce red on the horizon. I turned to examine the wool one last time and could not believe my eyes: it had changed colour. Not to white, but to black. As though it had been dyed with the blood of Iblis himself. And my own blood ran cold then. A terrible fear gripped me. I did not know what it meant, but I knew there could be no worse omen than this. I feared to touch the tainted wool, but wound it up regardless and placed it in my tunic, lest the eyes of our enemies spied its dark portent.

CHAPTER 53

Khaled and Tob arrived just before dusk. They were in high spirits - apparently the two rabbis had successfully completed the ritual – and they were eager to know of developments here aBet Hadudo. But their faces fell when I recounted the horrors of the charnel house. And Tob became ashen when I described Benito’s confession.

‘I could not have forseen this. It is a shock to me. But it explains a great deal. I was surprised at the reach of the Petrovingian Patriarch – his powers appear to be well beyond anything I have encountered before.’ He gestured towards Khaled. ‘When Khaled was briefly possessed, that was his infernal will in operation. But he was only able to reach us and cause harm through Benito. His bodily curses channelled and magnified the Patriarch’s evil. Benito was literally the embodiment of the Patriarch’s will.’

Khaled eyed me. ‘You did not listen to me Alaric. We should have killed him, or sent him on his way. I suspected something, but chose to hold my tongue. This is how the Patriarch works. Even from afar he sows discontent by planting a seed of malice amongst his enemies. I do not doubt that he engineered the whole event – from the very beginning it was his will that you should abduct Benito and have him become one of our party.’

I shrugged, angry that blame was now being handed out like so much stale bread. ‘It is too late either way. Benito did what he did, and he has now left us. Which we’re all agreed is for the best. We should attend to the rest of our journey. Rabbi, what should we do now that this ritual of yours has failed?’

Tob looked at me blankly. ‘But Alaric, the ritual did not fail. Rabbi ben Gad and I completed the services, sacrifices, and purifications of Yom Kippur successfully. You brought the goat to the correct location and sacrificed it to the demon Azazel. How has the ritual failed? What happened to the wool?’

Tob’s face sharpened into a mask of concern as I removed the wool from my tunic, and he saw the flicker of apprehension in my eyes. Tob took the wool but said nothing. I could tell his mind was racing, trying to decypher the implications of this outcome. His eyes were wide with fear, and suddenly he dropped the wool in the dust and retreated from it, covering his eyes.

‘Throw it over the cliff’ he commanded weakly. ‘Let no-one lay eyes on what has happened here.’

He sat down on a nearby rock, hands shaking, all colour drained from his face.

‘What does it mean?’ I asked.

Tob said nothing for some time. Finally I asked him again and slowly, as though still struggling to comprehend the full import, he replied. ‘It means… it means that something… someone has resisted the power of the ritual.’

‘Who? The Patriarch?’

‘It is possible. But it is more likely to be the demon himself. The purpose of the ritual is to appease both God and Azazel, ensuring the desert demon receives and accepts the transgressions of the people; it becomes a ‘scapegoat’ for their sins. But this has not happened. The black wool tells us that somehow he has refused to accept the burden. Therefore the burden of sin still lies with us. We are still impure, which is why the wool has turned black rather than white.’

‘Is this so bad? We have all of us lived with the burden of sin until now.’

Tob looked up. His normally sparkling, lively eyes were deadened. ‘In its bound state, the desert demon Azazel would not be able to resist the rites of Yom Kippur; it would be forced to accept the people’s sin. But it has not done so. It can only mean that the demon has been roused. It means Azazel is awake. Perhaps it is already free. Perhaps we are too late…’

****

Our hearts and minds wracked with fear, we made haste to the Templar monastery of St John. If Azazel had been roused, then it was the work of Petrovingian sorcery, and the Patriarch was rapidly progressing with arcane rituals of his own.

I briefly informed the others of my encounter with the Petrovingians in Jerusalem. ‘There will be more of them behind us. And probably Knights of Dudael. It will do us no harm if we travel by night – we can reach the Petrovingian camp in darkness, before dawn.’

The sun had set by the time we embarked on the final leg of our journey. The night was clear, the sky a wonderful deep indigo. Khaled led us east, using the bright stars as navigation. We plotted a route along narrow tracks through desert, scrubland and rocky wilderness, deep in our own meditations. No-one knew what to expect when we reached the Petrovingian camp. None of us, me least of all, had a plan as such. The odds were stacked against us: three men versus an army of Templars and sorcerer-knights, not to mention the terrible powers of the Patriarch himself. I felt my personal mission hang heavy on me. As wielder of the Shalat it was my responsibility to slay this desert demon Azazel, but I had no idea if such a thing was possible. I had no stomach for it anyway, for I was more preoccupied with the notion of meeting my father again, after a year of absence. He was in that camp somewhere and no doubt our paths would cross – I would make sure of it; I would seek him out. If he would have me dead, I would demand to know why. And then… Well, God and the Fates would decide the outcome.

Khaled spoke through the darkness: ‘where did Benito say he would go?’

‘As far away from me as possible. He wishes for us to succeed. He knows what he is. He withdrew from the world and became an anchorite for just that reason.’

‘And you took him from that place when she should have stayed in his cell. He would have been of no harm to anyone there.’

‘I know that Khaled. And I also know what it was that drove him to the brink of sanity in the first place, how he obtained those cursed markings on his body.’ I recounted Benito’s story, of his betrayal by the Jew, and his persecution by the Muslim. That shut Khaled up. He mumbled a prayer in his own tongue and said no more.

We walked for hours through the cool, clear night. It was Khaled who first spied the camp. Hundreds of flickering pinpricks of light carpeted the valley below us, where the desert floor dropped away to meet the still, lifeless waters of the Dead Sea. Khaled scouted ahead to ensure there were no Petrovingian outriders roaming the desert. He returned a short while later,orming us that a perimeter guard patrolled the camp, but that was all. Hearts thudding, we moved slowly from one piece of cover to another, descending inextricably towards our fate with every step. When we dared proceed no further, the three of us established a position behind a line of rocks that provided a good view of the camp below. We were now only slightly elevated above the valley basin. The sky was beginning to lighten in the east and, with each passing minute, more details of the camp were revealed. Immediately before us lay a wide sweep of white canvas – tents of various shapes and sizes nestling amongst the barren landscape. Guttering braziers and campfires accompanied each tent like little familiars, while ranks of black standards, raised high on lances, snapped in the desert breeze. Through the still night we caught various noises – a cough, laughter, horses snorting, blades being sharpened. Khaled estimated the size of the force in excess of two thousand knights and men-at-arms. My mind reeled. I felt desperate. To our left sat the squat, fortified monastery of St John. Still just a silhouette against the sky, we could nevertheless discern how the sea of tents lapped at the monastery’s curtain wall; within its boundary we spotted the church, its tower and a cluster of buildings. Khaled pointed to a line of tents close to the monastery’s gatehouse, which marked the main route leading into the camp. It was manned by what looked like a small detachment of Volkhy. Elsewhere we spied mounted guards circling the perimeter, but the patrols seemed erratic and casual. Time was now our enemy – the sun would rise in an hour. Before then I needed to secrete myself into the camp and, at the very least, locate my father. I reckoned I could run across the open ground between the camp and us without alerting a guard. Once inside, I would check every tent if necessary until I found the one which housed Ranulph of York. Then I would demand some answers.

Khaled looked at me uneasily. ‘Are you sure you want to proceed with this? You do not have to enter the camp now. We could remain here and observe the enemy, follow them to the place of Azazel’s prison and form a strategy thereafter.’

I was torn. I was an assassin with too many targets. Was I to kill the Petrovingian Patriarch, or the demon Azazel, or my father even? Was Azazel already free of his bonds? If not, should I wait until he was summoned before delivering the killing blow? There were no clear answers.

Tob, who had been quiet for a time, now spoke. ‘If I may offer a suggestion. I suspect that the Cave of Dudael – the location of Azazel’s tomb – lies south of here, on the eastern side of the Dead Sea. If I am to defend against the Patriarch’s sorcery and attempt to bind the demon, I must visit the site and make certain preparations. To do so we will need to circle around the back of the camp, by which time it will be dawn. Alaric, I agree with Khaled. We should attend to our most pressing concern first. I can understand why you desire to find your father, but it is not the focus of our plans. I am convinced you will see him shortly anyway. Come, let us circumvent the camp together and discuss these matters as we walk.’

On reflection I had to agree – I did not relish the prospect of breaching the camp and, in so doing, perhaps alerting the entire army to my presence. Our mission would then fail at the critical moment. My personal desires would have to be supressed for now, in favour of much more important concerns.

We began walking again, skirting the camp in a wide perimeter, careful at all times to remain out of sight. Tob led the way, seeming to rely onguesswork and intuition to lead us in the right direction. Fortune was on our side. A small band of Volky rode out of camp towards, we guessed, the Cave of Dudael. They had confirmed Tob’s deductions. All we needed to do now was follow their tracks and, God willing, they would deliver us to our goal. Tob’s route was leading us further away from the encampment, but I had been spying something for some time, in a small clearing amongst the tents: a figure seemingly strapped to an upright pole. It preyed upon me, and I desired to see more.

I gestured to Khaled. ‘Both of you, wait here.’ I scrambled down the rock-face, dodging behind boulders and scrub, until I was close enough for my suspicions to be confirmed. The pole itself was in a clearing for good reason – large pits had been dug close by which, from the smell, indicated they were cess pits, full of ripe ordure from the assembled army. To the other side of the clearing were workshops – probably tanneries and smiths, and a line of stables. Vicious-looking dogs, chained to nearby stakes, strained at their leashes and barked furiously at the bound figure.

Amidst a cloud of dust, Khaled slid down the incline to my side. ‘What are you doing Alaric? We do not have time for diversions.’

I nodded towards the clearing. ‘Look.’

‘Allah protect us.’

Even in the early dawn we could see that the pole was roughly twelve feet tall, and surmounted by a T-shaped section. Bound to it by his arms and legs, almost in a mockery of our Lord’s crucifixion, was a painfully frail figure wearing no more than a few tatters of rag. His legs were buckled and his head lolled to one side. His exposed, sun-scorched torso was covered in what appeared to be dense patterns of script.

‘Benito’ gasped Khaled.

CHAPTER 54

I nodded. ‘He must’ve wandered too close to the camp. They captured him, probably tortured him, and raised him up on this frame as an example. Or a warning.’

‘Or a lure. The Patriarch is merciless. He would use Benito as a tool to draw you to him. You must leave the hermit to his fate. You know now what a threat he is to us. If you attempted to rescue him, you would be caught. And if you did rescue him, Benito would be our companion again – and would destroy us as a result. Either way we lose and the Patriarch wins. You must leave him.’

‘Yes. You are right. But –‘

Suddenly I spied more movement – figures pacing between the rippling tents. I held my breath. Even in that brief instance I saw the trace of something that I dared not believe to be true. The figures reappeared then were hidden again – too little to know for sure. But they turned a corner then and emerged into full view, facing me.

‘It’s him’ I whispered.

‘Who?’

‘My father.’

He was unmistakeable. Tall and broad, a mass of tangled beard beneath a furrowed brow. He was accompanied by a pair of Petrovingian guards. My father’s head was bowed; he did not look up at Benito as they passed by. I made to get up but Khaled grabbed me.

‘You cannot my friend. Remember our true goal.’

‘To Hell with that. I’m going to see my father. You’ll have to kill me otherwise.’

Khaled sighed, but I noticed he gripped his dagger. I looked at him, and placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘From one brother to another, you must let me go. I will find you and the rabbi soon. But this, now, is a thing I must do.’

Khaled nodded resignedly. ‘So be it. But remember what it is that hangs in the balance. Remember that the fates of many are bound to your actions. Please, do not fail us.’

I smiled thinly and gripped his shoulder. ‘Thank you Khaled. Wish me good fortune.’

I broke cover and ran lightly over the open desert towards the nearest tent. From here I scampered in the direction of my father, running parallel to his path. In a few moments I had found him again. I skipped from tent to tent as he and his guards passed by, the crunch of their footfalls echoing through the clear morning air. I had now reached a junction and my father’s party took a right turn towards me. I ducked into cover and watched them pass. With luck they stopped close by and my father disappeared into a large Burgundian tent, marked with a Templar’s piebald standard. The two guards remained as sentries outside. I crept towards the back of the tent, knelt and listened. I could hear nothing and so guessed he was alone. As quietly and swiftly as possible, I removed my dagger and cut a slit in the canvas, then side-stepped through. The instant I set foot into the sparsely-furnished interior, I felt a blade at my neck.

I heard a low voice. ‘Who are you?’

I turned my head, very carefully, towards the source of the voice. I knew how ruthless my father could be with a blade; he would not hesitate in slicing my throat open.

‘Father. It’s me. Alaric.’

A moment’s hesitation, then I felt the blade lower from under my neck.

‘Alaric?’ The voice was now cracked and feeble. I turned and looked at the man who stood now just a few paces from me. Even in the flickering candle-light of the tent, I could see that he had aged much more than the year of absence would warrant. He was still tall and broad, but stooped now. His face was lined and haggard; his beard almost entirely grey. He was a ghost of the strong, brooding presence from my memories.

‘My son.’ He dropped his weapon and came towards me, and enclosed me in a gentle hug. It was not the bear-hug I had been used to, but it was still much welcomed. I inhaled his fatherly odour – memories of childhood suddenly rose up like thick coils of incense. He held me at arm’s length and his eyes filled with tears.

‘My son, I have committed a terrible deed, and I fear that what I have put into motion now cannot be undone.’ Then he bowed his head and wept.

I led him to a chair and poured him a cup of wine. It was shocking to see him like this; a lion of a man reduced to a broken, feeble shadow of his former self. I tried to hold my own emotions steady as I explained to him what had come to pass, but my heart ached to see him thus.

‘Tell me everything’ he said wearily, slumped in his chair like a man who had not slept once in a whole year. ‘But make haste, lest you are discovered.’

I marshalled my thoughts as best I could and began. I explained that the Templar Commander had told me father was dead, and that in my grief I had murdered Raynaud and the Nizari envoy. My escape from Acre and encounter with the Petrovingians had led to a union with the Hashishin called Khaled. I told how we had found my father’s party of dead Templars, alongside dead Petrovingians, and how the Templar Commander had lied – claiming the deaths were caused by Mameluk Turks. I explained how I had returned to Acre and discovered the two golden lots in his cell. Then how our meeting with Melchisedek Tob had revealed their purpose – for use in the ancient Jewish ritual of Yom Kippur. My tale moved on to Arba and the Repha’im, who had delivered the sword called Shalat to me all those years ago, in anticipation of the day when my father would attempt to raise the desert demon Azazel from his prison. And how the sword had been forged as a bane-blade to kill it. I spoke of our encounters with the Knights of the Seal of Dudael, and our trip to Jerusalem to perform the ritual of Yom Kippur, using my father’s lots – and the ritual’s doomed outcome. And finally of the ever-present threat from the Petrovingian Patriarch, who attempted to thwart our mission through the cursed anchorite called Benito.

‘All those years ago, when the Shalat was delivered to me at my investiture as a knight – that morning signalled the beginning of a fateful web of events that lead to this point, here and now. All my years in possession of the sword were training for this moment. Yet only now is my fate revealed. I was selected as wielder of the Shalat because Arba foresaw that, in years to come, you my father would attempt to summon the very creature the sword was fashioned to destroy.’

I paused for breath, but he sat immobile.

‘I guessed that the Templar Commander knew the truth. The Hashishin had been employed by Arba to track the Petrovingians and report their movements. The Commander knew very well that you were alive and had gathered a band of Templars to you under a new banner – the Knights of the Seal of Dadael. I think the Nizari Hashishin had some idea of my destiny – the man I murdered told me I was the key to their success. Whatever the Commander believed, he chose to maintain the deceit that you and your Templar defectors were all dead.

‘I have tried to piece together any scraps of information I could find in order to understand your plans. I was attacked by a band of your knights – including Philippe de Renart. He told me of the Knights of Dudael, and how they were a fraternity more pure and noble in purpose than the Templars. But even Arba did not know why you sought the cave of Dudael, and why you enlisted the aid of the Petrovingians to summon the demon Azazel.’

I looked at him hard now, my love and pity cooling to a shard of anger. ‘And why would you have me dead? Your own son! Both my allies and enemies reckoned you would kill me if I attempted to threaten your plans; that you would allow nothing to stand in your way. I didn’t believe i. But now I see that everything they told me is true. Do you wish me dead father? If so, you may try to kill me now, but you will not succeed.’

CHAPTER 55

Ranulph of York looked down at his feet like a man awaiting execution, and he expelled a great sigh that became a groan of anguish.

‘My son. At no point did I ever wish any harm upon you. This is the Patriarch’s doing. He has enslaved the minds of my men and turned them into zealots. I confess that I did begin this foolish quest, and I alone am to blame for all that you have endured. But it is beyond my control now. The Patriarch is all-powerful and utterly evil. I fear he has used me to achieve his own foul ends. I have been a mere pawn in his game; he plays with the lives of many to satisfy his own secret, twisted plans.’

‘Yes, I know’ I muttered. ‘Tell me then father, how did this begin?’

Ranulph of York looked at me with red eyes, full of sorrow. ‘Many years ago, when I was a young Templar, I knew even then the doom that would befall Outremer. Jerusalem had already fallen to the heathen. The Mameluk sultan Baibars had united the Saracen armies under one banner. Slowly but surely, he began to re-conquer towns, wrestling them from Christian rule and putting whole communities to the sword. And before long he was reclaiming our most beloved cities for Islam – first Caesarea, then Haifa, Arsuf, Antioch and Tripoli. It was clear that soon only Acre would remain in Christian hands. And Baibars’ army was so immense that we would not be able to resist it – the infidel would slaughter every Christian and drown us in our own blood. It seemed as though God had deserted us. We needed a miracle, something that could turn the tide of the war against our enemy and strike him such a blow that he would run screaming into the sea.

Once, I saved the life of an important Jew. In payment he offered me two golden lots – the very same as those you found in my cell. He explained their use within the ritual of Yom Kippur and, more importantly, the legend of the desert demon Azazel – the angel who had come to Earth and corrupted mankind and, in punishment, had been imprisoned in a rocky tomb in a place known as Dudael. Others know it as God’s Cauldron. I asked if the legend was true, and he insisted it was. I asked if the creature known as Azazel was powerful, and he told me the demon wielded powers that could annihilate whole armies. I began speaking to other Jewish mystics – Kabbalists and Rabbis, to find out more about Azazel. I sought out others too – necromancers, hierophants and men learned in the arcane arts. It became apparent that certain powerful sorcery could perhaps unlock Azazel’s prison, bind him and make him do a man’s bidding. Desperate times needed desperate measures, and I looked upon Azazel as a mighty weapon that could be harnessed and used against our enemy.

‘I shared this knowledge with a few close Templar brothers. Whilst most of the military orders bleated and fretted about the heathen threat, none did anything to address it, save maybe bring a handful of young and untested knights from the Western Empire into Acre. But there were a few who yearned for a return to the old days of Christian supremacy, and were prepared to consider any proposal. Although I did not wish it so, my fellow brothers voted that I should lead this secret band. And over time, as the Azazel plan began to capture our imaginationsd more, the group was christened the Knights of the Seal of Dudael. Soon, brethren from other orders joined our secretive band. One Teutonic brother had heard talk of a race of sorcerer-warriors known as Petrovingians. Brokered by a high-ranking Livonian knight, a council was held between the Petrovingians and the Dudael knights. We met at Petra, on the Black Sea. We knew nothing of the Petrovingians then, but their envoy made it clear that they supported our goals. They harboured no love for the infidel and were as keen as we were to see them vanquished. It also became apparent that they possessed powerful sorcery that, they assured us, would allow us to bind Azazel and have dominion over him. The two parties formed a pact on that day. We returned to Acre and set about extracting our men, under the pretence of a tour of duty of Templar strongholds; this would allow us to harvest more loyal brothers from across Outremer. After some months, hundreds of brethren from numerous orders had flocked to our cause, and we headed south en masse to rendezvous with the Petrovingians here, at the Templar monastery of St John. At the same time, the Nizari hashishin of whom you speak must have sent word to the Templar Commander of Jerusalem, warning of our plans. The Commander sent a detachment of his best men to head us off, but were intercepted and slaughtered by the Patriarch’s Volkhy. It grieved me to know that fellow Templars had been killed, but our continued secrecy was paramount, and I deferred to the Patriarch’s wisdom.’

Father paused, squeezing the bridge of his nose. His voice lowered, became a thin and hushed croak.

‘At this point the Patriarch’s powers became apparent. I learned of your involvement and begged him to show mercy, but to no avail. I suspected he wanted the sword – the Shalat – for himself, and had used me as a lure. He knows of the sword’s provenance; if he wielded it he could summon Azazel with impunity. But I cannot guess his plans. All I know is that he will not use Azazel as a weapon against the heathen, but rather as a tool to achieve his own dark ambitions. The man – such as he is – shows no mercy and possesses no pity or remorse. His soul is blacker than Samael’s. You would do well to fear him, for he has turned the Knights of Dudael against me. They have become murderous vassals; their minds are not their own. I am no more than a prisoner now, accompanied by Petrovingian guards wherever I go. My son, I wish that I could help you but I fear for your mission. The Patriarch aims to conduct the ritual of opening tonight, when Azazel will be unleashed on the world. He would have your sword before then. His arm is long and his eye is everywhere. He knows you are in this camp. You should leave while you still can.’

I could not and did not want to doubt my father. Despite what he said, my heart lightened. The deepest part of me had hoped I was not the subject of his murderous intent and I now realised he no more wanted to kill me than I him. But I feared his reason had been addled by the Patriarch’s will and, when our path’s finally crossed, he would no longer recognise me as his son. The thought had gnawed at me since I fled Acre. I should have known better. Despite his physical decay, his spirit remained strong enough to resist the Petrovingian’s evil. I should have had more faith in him.

His brow was lined with concern. ‘What will you do now?’

I looked about me and considered the options. ‘I must leave the camp and find the rabbi and Khaled. But I’ll not leave you here. If what you say is true, your life is in as much danger as my own. I’m taking you with me. We’ll escape together.’

Father remonstrated, but I grabbed his arm and dragged him towards the rear of the tent, where I had slashed an opening. I stepped through first. The camp was now fully awake and thronging with noise. Volkhy and Dudael knights moved purposefully to and fro. But we were still close to the camp perimeter. If we could cross that short distance and make it to cover in the desert beyond, we would be safe. I beckoned to my father and we stepped out into the morning light, careful not to alert his two guards stationed mere feet away. We moved fast, running in a crouch and ducking behind tents and awnings when needed. The camp was a labyrinth of canvas and most of its denizens kept to the main routes at the centre. Ahead of us lay stables, where ranks of horses were being tacked. Beyond that were the latrines, and then open wilderness. We remained hidden amongst the tangle of tent ropes, waiting for a chance to run. Besides a group of knights near the stables, our route looked clear. I turned to my father.

‘Get ready; we go now.’

Pulses pounding we surged forward, sprinting as fast as our lungs and legs would allow. I spied a shallow defile running along the valley edge and made for it. There was no time to look back, but I could not hear any cries or alarms behind us. We were in the open now, sprinting past the foulness of the cesspits. I suddenly realised what lay ahead of us. Benito was still strapped to his crucifixion-pole. I saw him, alone and isolated save for a single Dudael guard who seemed to be offering him water from a rag, attached to the end of his lance. Benito’s wiry, contorted frame lolled, then his head snapped up as he sucked water from the rag pressed against his face. Even at a distance I saw his eyes widen. Then he knocked the rag aside and yelled. ‘Master. Master knight. Help me. Please help me!’

The guard turned, saw us and growled an alert. I cursed. Suddenly the camp around us seemed to come alive with threat. I checked my father, still running after me but looking weary. The guard dogs near the stables barked hysterically. More knights heard the alarm and began to prowl towards us, some running.

Petrovingian dog-handlers untethered their hounds and a half-dozen or so of the rippling beasts flew towards us like arrows. I withdrew the Shalat from its scabbard and the blade glinted – a shard of mirror in the bright morning sun. The first dog was almost upon me as I brought the sword down onto its rearing head. The blade sank deep into its skull. With a frenzied yelp, the dog careened sideways, sliding along the dust, a tangle of blood and kicking legs. Three more hounds closed in, barking and frothing like the possessed. I swung a wide arc, hacking through legs and bellies. A mass of knights were now converging on our position, and archers at the rear began unloading their bolts, narrowly missing us but whipping into the dog’s hindquarters with meaty thuds. In a breath the first of the knights – Petrovingians – were on us. The Shalat shuddered almost in exaltation as it bit through mail and cloth into blood and sinew. Its strange energy coursed through my veins like ice-water, and I allowed the sword to guide my arm, sweeping left and right and cleaving through the pressing ranks of enemy warriors. The blade must have felled a dozen men before I was overwhelmed. The Volkhy showed no fear, despite my vicious swordplay, and surged forward, smothering my attacks. I tripped and fell over a web of tent ropes, smashing my head against a wooden stake; then a mass of bodies pinned me to the floor. Punches and kicks rained down, and the sharp sting and gasp of blows faded to nothing as I blacked out.

CHAPTER 56

Even before my eyes were open I felt the pain; the bright burst from a split lip demanded my attention first as I ran a swollen tongue over the wound, rapidly followed by an urgent, stabbing ache in my ribs and kidneys. Every sinew and muscle felt swollen and broken. I tried to prise open my eyelids and only partially succeeded; one was so bruised that it would open no more than a crack. It felt as though someone had boiled an egg in the socket. The other I could see through, but all was stained with red. The pain gave way to bodily confusion. Where were my hands? I realised groggily that they were tightly bound behind my back, and were completely numb. I rolled over and coughed – that one act was a feast of agonies. My face was in the dust and blood trickled through teeth, over lips and into the sand.

A pair of leather boots appeared nearby and suddenly I was engulfed in a wave of freezing water. I gasped, spluttered and choked, blinking it away. At least I could see clearer now. A Petrovingian knight stood over me, holding a dripping water pail. He bent down and I winced as he grabbed my neck in a strangling grip and pulled upwards. My legs must have flailed like a mad trobadour as I tried to find my footing before the life was squeezed out of me. Finally I stood, though with legs bent and body listing to one side. The guard held me firmly in place. I blinked again and saw that I was in a large black tent. Ahead of me was an avenue of black votive candles, mounted on ornate silver pedestals, casting a lambent glow around the interior. Above each candle was a similarly ornate censer, hanging from ceiling hooks and gently expelling thick, sickly incense. The smell made me feel more nauseous and giddy than was already the case. At the far end of the tent was one of the largest shrines I had ever seen. Covered in gold and studded with gems, it contained all the intricate details of a cathedral church. Features resembling porches, tracery, buttresses and pinnacles were all rendered in exquisite miniature. It was breathtaking, as though gazing upon a vision of the Heavenly realms.

To one side of the shrine a tapestry door parted and a retinue of guards stepped through. Their garb resembled the Petrovingian Vokhy’s, but infinitely more ornate. They wore the same tall headdresses, bound to their skulls, and helmets with golden eye-armour; mail scarves obscured their faces but I guessed that – like all the others I had encountered – they suffered the same monstrous deformity as their kin. Six of these guards emerged, three standing either side of the shrine, swords strapped to their chests and a spear in one hand. Moments later a single figure calmly stepped forth, swathed in an expansive, patterned white cloak, its train trailing far behind. Beneath the cloak the figure was bound in orange fabrics and leather. I was amazed to see that the face was entirely visible – not to mention intact – although surrounded by a tight-fitting garment that covered his neck and chin, as a nun’s headpiece might do; atop his head sat a tall headdress draped in gold chains. Indeed, his entire outfit was dripping with exquisite metals; the cloak alone was studded with a thousand gold crosses. Such finery. Could this be the Petrovingian Patriarch? Was I finally to confront the evil and enigmatic sorcerer-king that hunted me? My heart thudded in its cage. I examined his expressionless face. It looked very pale – almost white – but young, free of blemish and quite innocent. Not the twisted, malevolent visage I had expected. But the face was empty and without expression, and the pale blue eyes looked straight through me. Finally, three re figures appeared, clad entirely in unadorned black silk from head to toe – their heads were obscured by masks; not even eyeholes were cut for them to see, yet they seemed to move effortlessly. One carried a book, one a box and one a thurible. There was a ritual solemnity to the proceedings. I was in the presence of regal authority.

Once they had assumed their positions the figure I wondered might be the Patriarch spoke. He may have looked like a young boy but his voice was ancient, dry as old bones and rasping like the death rattle of an expired soul.

‘Unsurprised am I that you are here. Your presence does not confound me. I am not vexed by your intrusion.’ His voice was thick with the accents of the eastern principalities – Moscow, Novogrod and the rest. But the words were spat from his lips like black bile, as though each one poisoned his throat. His empty blue eyes suddenly flicked down to me, and his immaculate features twisted into a rictus of malice.

‘For unwise are you. Pitiful your comprehension. Like swine are you, rooting amongst the filth for morsels of truth.’

I suddenly realised I knew the figure before me. It was Falkon, the son of Elias the franklin. The Petrovingian army had taken the boy while the rest of the village suffered horrible mutilations. I could not look at his malevolent features; the boy’s bright innocence had been cut out, replaced by pure hatred. I turned away but the guard grabbed my head and twisted it to the front. The figure stepped towards me. Was it possible that this boy was also the Patriarch?

‘Falkon?’ I whispered.

The boy’s face registered no understanding. ‘Your nemesis am I. A blight on your miserable life am I. Swift will be your undoing, painful your ending, not merciful your slaughter. For the Black Lord of Petrov am I, King of Woe, Prince of Curses. Limitless is my influence, irresistible my will, terrible my retribution.’

‘Where is my father?’ I gasped. ‘Where is my sword?’

‘Address not me, swine of swine. Speak not to me, worm of worms. Helpless your father is. Not quick will be his suffering, not modest his torture. For a traitor is he to Petrovingia. Weak and gutless, like his runt of a son.’

Spittle flecked the boy’s perfect features. He was almost drunk with malice and I was revulsed by him. But the thought of my father dying slowly at his hand was too much to bear, and it overwhelmed my disgust.

‘Do what you will with me but spare my father. He is a good man. I am riddled with sin; I deserve to perish at your hand. But not him. He has endured enough. I beg you – let him go.’

The boy expelled a slow, mirthless cackle – the sound of dead wood snapping. I saw then that, behind his unsullied features, his teeth were blackened and deformed. ‘Deaf are my ears to your entreaties, as they were to your father’s, for he also begged that I should spare his son. Absent of pity I am, devoid of all mercy. For I have lived many lives. An eternity of human folly have I witnessed, and I conclude: insolent is mankind, abhorrent is the flesh, terrible is the world. Great is my hatred.’

What my father said e – the Patriarch was utterly, relentlessly cruel. Not to mention immensely powerful. And probably mad, or possessed, or both. It felt as though everything was unravelling. I was badly beaten. I had lost my father, the Shalat and my companions. The Patriarch seemed to have triumphed. I had no options left.

I looked at the raging figure before me, wondering if I could do or say anything that might influence him. Then words began tumbling out of me. I had nothing to lose now; honesty was my last resort.

‘I did not ask for any of this. I had this burden thrust upon me. I do not want to be the bearer of the sword called the Shalat. I reject the task of defeating the demon Azazel. I do not want you as my enemy; believe me – I have endured much by your hand. And in God’s name I have had enough. In truth, as Saint Euphemia is my witness, I do not care what happens to anyone, or to this dust bowl of a world. All I want is for my father to be safe. If I have any care, it is for him only. Jehovah, Christ, Mohamet, Iblis, Azazel, Arba – I spit on them. Toying with men’s lives, piling guilt and misery upon us all. I am sick with sin and sick of life. Death would be a release for me. I do not fear it. And you – the Petrovingian Patriach – who has harried me since this pointless quest began, who has hounded me and cursed my every step: go and fuck yourself. I do not fear you. No doubt you thrive on terror and hatred, but I am empty of temper; my soul is shrivelled and my spirit a dry husk. The Heavenly host has abandoned me. So do what thou wilt. I care not.’

The boy’s icy blue eyes widened a fraction, and the thinnest of lines creased his brow. I expected him to command my execution there and then. ‘Your words are unexpected. But like music are they to me. Life without consolation. Breath without hope. Speech without spirit. To me, such things are blessings.’

He came closer and the guard standing beside me wrenched my weary head up. The boy’s voice turned to a cracked whisper. ‘Yes. Yes. Remorselessly have I stalked you from afar. Great has been my desire for the weapon you bear. Wounded. Dismayed. Weary. Crushed. Defeated. You are all these things, as fashioned by my hand.’ His red lips arched into a thin smile and the softest cackle groaned forth from his foul maw.

‘But expect no pity from me. Grace. Mercy. Forgiveness. Like bile are these words. Bearer of the sword Shalat you may be, but no more are you than another debased soul amidst the sea of befouled souls, wallowing in this cradle of putrefaction.’

The boy’s eyes were damp. A line of brown liquid emerged from the corner of his mouth and ran slowly down his white, immaculate features like oil, until it stained the rich fabric of his garments. A slender white hand rose up to my face and made to gently touch it, then recoiled at the last moment. His face moved yet closer, his eyes briefly looking beyond me, and when he spoke, his breath was like the foulest carrion. ‘Death is at your shoulder. Not for long will your heart beat. Few are your hours. Extinction your only certainty. But before your passing, I will show you the truth.’

The boy turned away and gestured towards his guards. ‘Reveal the Corpus Mundi.’

CHAPTER 57

I held my breath as three guards moved towards the rear of the tent. They approached the shrine and one of them stepped towards the black-clad acolyte carrying the box. The box itself was encrusted with gold and gems and must have weighed an amount but, until this moment, the carrier had stood perfectly immobile and silent. Now he lifted the lid and removed three slender keys, handing them one by one to the guard who, in turn, inserted them into a series of mechanisms concealed within the shrine. He returned the keys to the acolyte, who stepped aside. The guards then carefully prized open two sides of the shrine, like to two immensely heavy doors. The hinged sections parted and what sounded like a sigh expelled from whatever lay within. Once the doors were fully parted the guards resumed their positions on the flanks. A second acolyte swung his thurible across the opening whilst reciting some kind of litany. Amidst the incense smoke and the flickering candlelight I could barely make out the interior of the shrine. The Patriarch stepped forward, as did the Volkhy beside me, dragging me with him. I was within a few feet of the shrine when my guard pushed me to the floor. But I could now see what lay beyond and my spirit recoiled in horror and stupefaction.

‘Mother of Christ protect us.’

I supposed it had once been a man, but it was a man no longer. I saw a naked body – such as it was – suspended by hooks that pierced old and puckered flesh, from the ceiling of the cramped cell where the body was interred. The arms had been severed above the elbow and the legs removed above the knee. Where genitals had once been there was now only a mess of scars. The torso itself was so emaciated as to be skeletal; almost every bone was visible. And the loose grey skin covering this mutilated cage of bones was itself marked with scars, scratches, burns, soils and ulcers. The face was missing its lower jaw; in its place was a ragged void from which black drool trailed like oil. The nose had been sliced away; both eyes had been burned from their sockets; the ears had been removed. Those few teeth that remained attached to black gums were long and yellow. The only adornment was a golden crown sitting atop the creature’s damp, waxen head.

And yet the thing was alive.

It’s torso curled in spasms and the head rolled from side to side. Of all the horrors I had witnessed, this was without equal. And then I realised that I had seen that face before – in a dream whilst asleep in Tob’s air leviathan.

The assembled guards and acolytes genuflected and the boy gestured towards the shrine. ‘The truth lies here, in the heart of this mutilated body. The true Patriarch am I. Yes! A mere vessel is the boy before you – a neophyte and attendant. Pure and unsullied is he. A worthy repository for my great wisdom. Through him do I make my will manifest. By my arts can I do this. Powerful are my skills. Weak my body.’

I suddenly understood. In the same way that Benito had been a vehicle for the Patriarch’s malice, so was the poor unfortunate boy Falkon, dressed in such finery. The true Patriarch was the withered, deformed being before me. And his human mouthpiece was this boy-priest, no doubt selected because of his purity and innocence; the Patriarch possessed the lad’s mind, giving voice and form to his own despicable purpose.

I did not know which of the two to address, so remained attentive to the ensorcelled neophyte. But the Patriarch was already ranting: the torso sg on its hooks and the boy-priest pacing to and fro.

‘Weak is the flesh. Weak and evil. Vulnerable it is to many onslaughts. A prison it is also. A black casket of despair. The darkness of the flesh traps the light of the soul. Woeful are our lives. Miserable our spirits. Salvation lies in freeing the soul from the taint of matter. Only at death will the light become unsullied by darkness. ‘

The boy-priest stopped and looked down at me, and a sly smile flickered across his features. ‘A young man was I when these truths were revealed. Like you was I. Indulged in earthly depravity did I; all manner of vices. You know of what I speak, for you also take your fill of fleshy degradation. Concupiscence pleased me then, for lust and indulgence sped along my corruption, ushering in the time when the body would wither and die and the spirit be released.’

The boy’s smile also withered, replaced by a grim sneer. ‘The wrong path was this. A harsh lesson for me was this. As a child, everything was permitted. As a man, everything was to be denied. For I had learned another truth: the flesh must be punished. Extreme denial and mortification – that is the righteous path. The flagellants of the stripling Catholic heresy know this. The Jew of the Sun knows this. He and I – similar are we. We have passed through the same portals. We are on the same journey. Yet weak he is. Knowledge without action. Wisdom without duty. These things are displeasing to me. While he withdraws from life in his ship of the air, I seek to bring about an end – a resolution to the Great Error.’

The boy-priest approached the mangled body within the shrine. ‘Pain and suffering. Reminders are they of the tragedy of life – the severing of the soul from the world of spirit. This is the greatest form of torture. I commanded my people to degrade this earthly body, and so they did – over the centuries. A blessing was each new wound. Joyful to me was the immolation. Mortification sharpened my powers, focussed my mind. Spurn the flesh would I, punish the body. What you see now are the fruits of that Great Work.’

The boy-priest gestured at the lump of twisted flesh hanging from its hooks like a butcher’s wares. ‘Painful were those centuries. Not trivial the agony. Yet my powers grew and they nourished the spirit, if not the flesh. They sustained me across the ages of mankind, the generations of filth.

‘Ecstatic now am I for the End Times are at hand and the Great Work can be completed. For does your nailed god not say “there shall be signs in the sun and in the moon and in the stars; and upon the earth distress of nations”? That time is at hand. The creature Azazel: the Great Corruptor is he; Az, Ashaklun, the demon of greed. He brought the forbidden knowledge to humankind, which was the source of its depravity. Returning him to this veil of tears would cause a great tide of corruption, a new and bloody crusade that will bring the world to its knees. Great are my powers. But I would be unable to control him, lest I wielded the sword you call the Shalat. And now that I do own that weapon I will summon the desert demon and bind him to me. Then can I achieve many great deeds. Ambitious are my plans, not limited their scope. For I would annihilate this fading world of matter. Lakes of ash. Cities razed. Corpse piled on corpse. A blackened sun and a red moon. All these things would please me greatly. And like this ragged body – the Corpus Mundi – this putrid realm would decay and our souls would fly to their homes amidst the world ight. Azazel will usher in this new age. For I desire the death of mankind. All shall perish, none shall be spared. And then free will I be – free of these earthly bonds after centuries of sin. My spirit will be reunited with Petrovingia’s dark masters, and I will be a black saviour sitting at Kheshokha’s left hand.’

Sweat poured from the boy-priest’s brow and a look of ecstatic bliss rested on his features. The Patriarch’s lumpen torso bucked and twisted in a frenzy, black drool slaking his malformed chest.

The boy’s gaze turned to me briefly, and I was dismissed with a flick of the wrist. He nodded towards the guard at my side: ‘I have no further need of this rat. Dispose of him, and the one who sired him.’

CHAPTER 58

With that I was dragged outside, bound hand and foot and chained to a post like one of their hounds. The camp was a frenzy of activity. Tents were being collapsed and packed, horses tacked and blades sharpened. A fabulous golden carriage drawn by many white oxen drew up nearby and the Patriarch’s ornate shrine was loaded onto it with much solemnity by his cortege of sentinels. The carriage then departed through the rear of the camp. Accompanied by its mounted outriders and sentinels, this was clearly a signal to the rest of the force. Other Volkhy, men at arms, Dudael Knights and support units fell in behind the Patriarch’s gleaming caravan and, in a roiling cloud of dust, the army disgorged from the camp. In what felt like mere moments my surroundings had become crushingly quiet. All that remained now were a few torn tents, still-smoking fires, jagged ranks of broken lances and heaps of discarded flotsam. A couple of dogs rooted amongst the debris. I wondered if I would be left as carrion for the vultures, to be picked apart at their leisure. But moments later I saw four Dudael knights emerge from between the flapping sheets of canvas, stepping purposefully towards me, their dirty blue surcoats and insignia clearly visible.

‘You thought we’d forgotten you boy?’ one called. ‘Thought we’d mislaid you, did you?’ They all chuckled throatily. From their loping gaits I guessed they had been drinking and, when they reached me, dragging me up and slapping me across the face, I could smell the wine. I recognised two of them as Templars from the Commandry at Acre. But I could not recall their names – my time in the order felt like an age ago. They untied me but, with hands still bound, I was dragged and kicked towards the rear of the camp – towards the latrines. I feared the worst.

‘You’re going to throw me in one of those shit holes?’

One of them cuffed me across the back of the head. ‘Shut your mouth, you traitor.’

‘We might. Our lads are doing your papa now. Heard them say they was going to use a poker.’

‘It would be too good for this one. Better to cut off your coillons and shove them up your arse, you bastard.’

These men were supposed to be my brethren, and yet to them I was something less than an animal. I expected such treatment from the Patriarch but, somehow, from my own kind, it felt far worse.

Another kick up the backside and I crumpled into the dust. I convinced myself that the Patriarch had addled their minds, but these men seemed to be enjoying my humiliation too much. I felt tears in my eyes then – of pain and self-pity and exhaustion. As I lay in the sand, spittle and boot heels raining onto me, I saw something high in the otherwise clear cobalt skies – birds by the look of it, moving closer like a little black cloud. They divided in two, one heading north and the other continuing in my direction. I staggered to my feet just as we passed Benito’s crucifixion-pole. It was empty.

‘Where’s the man you had bound to that pole?’ I asked.

One of the knights expelled a cross between a cough and a laugh, and hawked up a gobbet of phlegm. ‘Doing the Master’s work. The Patriarch let him go. Don’t think you’ll get off so lightly though. That scrawny little turd has his uses. You don’t.’

‘What’s that?’ said another, pointing up at the rapidly approaching flock.

‘Birds. Maybe we should tie this one up to that pole. Let those crows make a meal of him.’

‘Those aren’t crows’ I muttered. ‘They’re falcons.’

I threw myself to the ground and moments later the air around me was engulfed in a maelstrom of beating wings and avian screeching. The noise was deafening, like the roar of a tempest. And the snapping wings whipped the sand into spiralling columns, as though a dust devil had been called forth from the earth. I crouched low, covering my head as best I could. The cacophony continued, then suddenly quietened; the winds, too, lessened and I looked up. The falcons were already departing, soaring back into the sky, threads dangling from their claws. Threads of…

I gazed about me. Two of the Dudael knights were lying still in the dust. Another was on his knees, clutching his face. The fourth staggered left and right, dark blood dripping from the two holes that, moments before, had housed his eyeballs. His moans punctured the quiet camp. I scrabbled to my feet, gasping, and looked about me. My hands were still bound. But it did not prevent me from kicking one of the recumbent knights: once, twice – hard in the head. Blood was already welling from his face and soaking into the sand. No question, he was dead. Whilst the other two wailed for help, I crouched down and prized a dagger from the corpse’s belt. And not too soon. I spied a figure, sword in hand, running towards me. Another Dudael knight? I frantically began cutting at my bonds, but the blade was quite blunt. As the figure approached I heard him call out.

‘Alaric?’

My heart leapt. ‘Father! It’s me! Here!’

The blinded knight fumbled for his sword and clumsily unsheathed it. His face and pale blue surcoat were drenched in blood, and his gaping eye sockets resembled some kind of obscene stigmata.

‘You little bastard’ he gasped. ‘You are in league with Lucifer, for only he would command the birds to do this.’ He stabbed a finger at his face. ‘Curse you!’ His blade swung wildly but I was well out of range. He ran at me, staggering and tripping, but I had to jump aside to avoid his lunges. He stopped and turned as he heard my father apprach.

‘Is that you Ranulph? Come here and let me bathe my blade.’

Father’s charge slowed to a walk. He looked as though he had received a battering from his captors, as I had, and from his grim visage I knew he was in no mood to parley. Yet he spoke to the blinded knight in an almost conciliatory tone.

‘Benedict de Grey. We fought together for the Temple many times. What happened to you? Do you no longer recognise me as a Brother?’

‘I do not. You and your boy-spawn have betrayed the code of the Knights of Dudael. The order that you yourself conceived. You have forsaken our great plan. Fools. Yet you will never thwart the Patriarch.’

‘The Patriarch has only one plan’ I spat. ‘And it is to bathe in the ash and blood of everything we hold dear. He will annihilate you. And the Temple, Acre, Outremer in its entirety. All shall perish. Can you not see that?’

The blind knight turned this way and that, his eyeless face raised to the heavens, casting his sword about him like a necromancer inscribing occult marks in the dust. ‘Lies! The Patriarch is the saviour of Outremer. He was right to demand your execution. He warned us against you – your tongue is forked; you are the Devil’s chattel.’

My father held his sword aloft. ‘So you cannot be made to see the truth? Will you entrust your soul to that deceiver the Patriarch over Christ, and over us, your Brothers?’

‘Go to Hell Ranulph.’

‘Very well. I know I am destined for the abyss, but you will surely pass through its gates first.’

My father swung his blade and felled the blind Dudael knight. The man named Benedict de Grey crumpled to the floor, cleaved and bloodied, gasping his last breaths.

Father came to me, cut my bonds and smiled thinly. ‘Come my son, let us prove this knave a false prophet.’

We left those men in the dust and staggered out of the camp. I wiped the grime from my face and, looking up, saw a falcon perched atop Benito’s crucifixion pole. It squawked, cocked its head and flexed its graceful wings. I heard a bell jingling faintly and squinted at the bird. ‘Qamar?’ I murmured.

The falcon croaked, almost in answer, then looked down and pecked at something held in its claws. Unless my eyes deceived me it was a severed eyeball.

CHAPTER 59

We walked through the searing heat, my father and I, begrimed and weary but quietly resolute. My father barely spoke. I looked at him, brow furrowed and jaw set, sweat carving channels down his dirty face, and asked what had happened to him after we were captured. His story was not much different to mine: he had been taken back to his tent, tied and beaten by his guards until the time came for the Petrovingians to decamp. Then a gang of frenzied Dudael knights with murder on their minds dragged him into the deserted encampment. They told him I was tined for the same fate. He too saw the cast of falcons approach and divide in two, and he sheltered whilst they attacked his captors – to a man their eyes were pecked clean. He took a sword from them, finished them off and ran through the camp looking for me. I considered our brief good fortune at the hands of Qamar the falcon. It was strange how this bird appeared to exert a powerful and benign influence from time to time throughout my journey. I had heard of certain heathen peoples who believed that spirits sometimes inhabited the bodies of animals, in the same way that warlocks reputedly trapped devils in the form of cats and toads as companions. And I wondered briefly if Qamar was also a servant of witchery, and why he chose to aid rather than abet our progress. Whatever the answer, I was grateful, if wary – I was suspicious that once again the Patriarch was behind this, and he contrived to sow seeds of false hope in my heart.

We followed the enemy’s tracks through the wilderness and into a valley. The sun was high in the sky and I became nervous of spies nestling amongst the rocks. My father agreed that we should leave the main path and climb to a ridge further up the valley wall. It was a wise decision. Before long we encountered a cordon of Petrovingians, spaced well apart, but nevertheless creating a perimeter that we would have to pass through. We chose to circle them until a natural revetment – a ribbon of trench – presented itself and, crouching low, we scampered along it and through their line undetected. We remained in that rocky depression as it provided us with adequate cover from any other guards that might patrol the area, although we saw none. Eventually the land gave way and dropped down into a wide, shallow basin. It was here that the Petrovingian column had halted. This then was the location of Hell’s Cauldron - the Cave of Dudael. The entire army was now arrayed below us – a lake of fluttering colours and gleaming metal – formed into haphazard semi-circular ranks. Petrovingian cavalry had established a second inner perimeter – mounted knights were ranged in a ring of steel around the edge of the crater-shaped valley. At the far side of the basin were the Patriarch’s carriage, his sentinels and his extended cortege. A detachment of Dudael knights also stood guard nearby. In front of them all was a large black silk canopy, rippling gently. More guards were stationed at its four corners.

‘Beneath that awning is where Azazel lies’ muttered my father. ‘Kept captive deep within the earth, his prison is sealed with a door of bronze. The Petrovingians have spent weeks excavating the tomb entrance – it was piled with rocks. And only the Patriarch could have identified its location – there were no maps and no signs to tell where it could be found.’

‘What will happen now?’ I wondered. ‘How will the Patriarch unlock the seal?’

‘Sorcery. Ritual. A careful and prolonged summoning of all his powers. The rites will take hours. The Patriarch will work throughout the day with his attendants, ensuring that every step is performed exactly as required.’

‘It is this summoning that Melchisedek Tob has taken upon himself to repel. He has powers of his own.’ I looked around the wilderness above the valley floor. ‘He and Khaled must be here somewhere. By our Lady, I pray they haven’t been captured.’

Father nodded. ‘We must find them. The Jew may be our only hope now.’

We circled the valley slopes, skipping from boulder to , but spied no-one. The only option was to descend further, closer to the enemy ranks, in the hope of discovering our companions. We slid carefully down the dusty incline. My pulse was racing as the army of thousands below drew closer; I could begin to make out the details of their dress, and hear their black banners flapping in the breeze. I was about to suggest that the risk was too severe and we should retreat, when I saw two heads amongst the rocky desert – one black, one white. I tugged at my father’s sleeve. ‘Look, down there – below us. Do you see?’

He nodded. We moved slowly towards them. I had taken a sword from one of the dead Dudael knights and drew it now. It felt heavy and unwieldly in my grasp compared to the Shalat. If the figures below were Khaled and Rabbi Tob, they were dangerously close to the enemy – no more than thirty foot away. We were almost upon them when the black-haired figure turned, dagger in hand. It was Khaled my Nizari companion. He gestured for us to come close, and we did so.

‘Greetings Christian’ he said. ‘I am glad you have found us finally. Much has happened in your absence and the last hours draw near.’

I greeted him and, after introducing my father, told of my encounter with the Patriarch. My father ran a filthy hand over his bald head and sighed. ‘By the Queen of Heaven. The Patriarch is truly the Devil incarnate. I am ashamed for what I have done to bring all this to pass, and for the burden I have placed on you all. I cannot ask you to forgive me. And I know I can never repent from this great sin. But I swear on all that is holy that I will do what I can to help you now, at this time of final reckoning.’

Tob smiled his kindly smile, and his eyes sparkled as they always did. Yet there were lines of strain on his aged face. ‘My friend, I fear the Patriarch had ordained this outcome from the depths of his stronghold in the Volost Vuikka many years hence. It was out of your hands before you had even conceived any such notion.’

‘We’ve all been played, like so many pawns’ I growled.

‘Then we must defeat the Patriarch en passant’ retorted Khaled. ‘Let him think he has won, then pull the victory from under him. I for one will not let him, or his foul agents, destroy us. Only Allah has that right.’

Tob nodded. ‘We must not despair. We must all be strong and keep any baleful passions at bay. Remember – the Patriarch wants us to capitulate. But the power of the Sephirot is greater than any Petrovingian magic. I will draw down the light of Kav Smol and with it, all the forces of righteousness. Believe me when I tell you that the Sephirot will not suffer these imbalances brought about by the Petrovingians’ dark magic. Between us we will expose the Patriarch for the trickster he most surely is.’

I had rarely heard Tob talk like this before, with such fire in his belly. Maybe the few days he had spent with his feet firmly planted on the earth were enough for worldly passions to inflame his spirit. Either way, at that moment I believed Tob – believed he could marshal forces powerful enough to crush our enemies.

‘What should I do?’

Khaled gripped my arm and stared at me hard. ‘You must retrieve the Shalat. As bearer of the sword this is your task, and your task alone. It will be held amongst the Patriarch’s cortege, as he will need it in order to bind Azazel if – and when – the summoning is complete. In Allah’s name, let us hope he never achieves that goal. But if he does – and if he still possesses the Shalat at that point – then he will be nigh invincible and all will be lost. Even the rabbi’s powers will be no match against the demon Azazel.’

‘And I’ muttered my father in humbled tones, ‘what can I do?’

‘Protect your son’ said Khaled flatly, with your life if necessary. And I will do the same for the rabbi.’

My father inhaled deeply, nodded and cast me a rare smile. He of all people knew the challenge we now faced. ‘I will do that. You have my word.’

‘Good’ said Tob, raising the white tallit prayer shawl over his grey locks. His voice was clear and sonorous as his hot, dry hand reached out and touched us all, one by, one, upon the head.

‘Praise to You Elohim, Sovereign of the Universe. May your Shekhinah protect us, like a pillar of fire, so that we may be a pristine light in the coming darkness.’

He looked up at the brilliant blue sky, then at the ground, then at us. He was smiling, and tears streamed down his cheeks. ‘God be with you all. Now go – there are other prayers that need to be said.’

CHAPTER 60

My father and I left Tob, now deep in his meditations, and Khaled, who sat calm and upright, keenly surveying the landscape for signs of threat. We skirted round to the opposite side of the basin-shaped valley, hugging the landscape. I noticed with dismay that Petrovingian archers were readying themselves for a patrol, and hoped they would not scout too far beyond the main body of the army, otherwise we would immediately be exposed.

The Patriarch’s carriage was brought up to the black silk canopy, so that it faced whatever lay beneath. His sentinels, attendants and neophytes fanned out alongside, and the boy-priest was also present. A Volkhy guard emerged from amongst the main army, leading a file of monks. These were no doubt from the monastery of St John, taken captive by the Petrovingians when they had arrived en masse and made camp outside the monastery walls. The monks, haggard in their rude habits, were ushered one by one into the area beneath the canopy. None of them reappeared. The boy-priest and his attendants, armed with censers and what looked like ceremonial sickles, also disappeared under the rippling silk sheets. In time, soft chanting began to seep from within and drift across the valley floor. It was approaching late afternoon and pockets of troops, weary from standing, began to kneel or sit in the dust, spears and halberds still held aloft. But apart from the rustle of movement – sand grinding underfoot or armour creaking, or the whinny of horses – there was no noise. The birds and desert creatures had either abandoned this place, sensing its cursed nature, or were nt but silent due to some misguided sense of reverence. I was wondering how I could make any movement without alerting the scouts to my position, when a Petrovingian guard brought forth what was unmistakably the Shalat, suspended vertically on its crosspiece by two parallel poles. The guard held either end of these poles at arms length, as a smith might carry a bowl of molten iron. He rested the poles on top of two upright supports, directly between the Patriarch’s carriage and the black awning, so the double-tip of the Shalat rested mere inches above the floor. My heart raced when I saw it. I had never realised quite how much I coveted – or rather needed – it until now. As opium was to Arba, so the Shalat was to me. I was dependent on it. Not only did the weapon extend my fighting prowess, and bestow a certain status upon me, it also gave me strength and purpose, and a surge of fortitude like a lightning strike. My sword-hand itched and my lips were dry. I had to get it back.

But there was still no opportunity for me to strike, and by dusk, after hours of crouching in silence, the atmosphere changed. The neophytes’ chanting had become a drawn-out keening, rising and falling like the work of a diabolic choir. A spectral, gibbous moon hung high in the fading sky, as though emerging into the world from another more mysterious realm. Indeed, the air itself was charged with a strange power, and it felt to me that many realms were intersecting that evening – the veil between our world and other, unknown domains was gossamer-thin and could be breached at any moment. Nature itself was complicit in this erosion of boundaries; every breath of wind, the sway of every branch on every scraggy bush, was pregnant with anticipation, seemingly infused with an occult intelligence. The hairs on my neck stood on end, straining towards the stars.

There was activity below. A detachment of Dudael knights approached the awning, lifted the rippling black silk from its supporting frame and folded it back, slowly revealing what lay beneath. I held my breath. At first the scene resembled a site of excavation – an undecipherable pile of rocks, but I rapidly began to comprehend it: a circular pit had been dug beneath the canopy, at least ten foot deep. Rough terraces were cut into the rock, forming an uneven set of steps around the rim. Rubble and stone blocks taken from the pit had been used to build a thick, low wall – semicircular in shape – around the rear of the site. In the floor of the pit, embedded in the rock, was a tarnished metal disc the diameter of at least two men laid end-to-end. It was engraved with a staggeringly intricate design. At its centre was a seven-pointed star, with signs of unknown meaning at each of its stations, and at the hub was a simple glyph – a rune – that resembled the insignia upon the Dudael knight’s hauberks. More exotic markings were inscribed between the heptagram’s stations, and encompassing the star was a complex geometric shape – an interweaving mesh of lines and angles, peppered with sigils. Surrounding the entire design was a border containing an unbroken band of ornate letters, wrought in a language that I at least could not read. This then was the Seal of Dudael, fashioned by Cherubin at the dawn of the world; marked with symbols of power to incarcerate the demon Azazel in his desert prison until the Last Days. The archangel Raphael himself had piled jagged rocks atop the seal to ensure it would never be located amongst the wilderness of the Holy Lands. And indeed it remained ignored and undisturbed for all the ages of mankind. Until now.

Fire pits, filled with pitch, had been dug either side of the main site, into which Petrovingian Volky now cast the limp bodies of dead monks, their throats slit. More Volkhy erected braziers around the stll. One knight, lit torch in hand, moved from fire pit to brazier, igniting all in turn. The fires erupted with a roar, cracking and spitting and sending columns of acrid black smoke into the sky. The entire valley basin was bathed in a flickering, bloody glow. The sickly odour of charring flesh and incense filled my lungs.

The Patriarch’s boy-priest stood on the rough steps at the edge of the pit, accompanied by a neophyte holding a large bowl of blood, no doubt captured from the throats of the dying monks. Face impassive, the boy-priest scooped a quantity into a smaller bowl and dribbled red markings in the dust. More of the black-clad priesthood slowly paced the perimeter of the site, swinging thuribels and wailing their unholy litanies.

The hour was approaching when I would have to make a move, or it would be too late. I had no idea how far the ritual of summoning we witnessed had progressed, but all signs pointed to a rapid resolution. My heart thudded as I prepared to break cover and slip down the short path below to the valley floor, and towards the Shalat. But at that moment I felt an urgent tap on the shoulder and turned to see my father gesturing silently. He pointed to my right and I saw a line of Petrovingian scouts, armed with longbows, sweeping slowly towards us. If we stayed here we would be seen. My father leaned in and whispered: ‘we must split up. I will climb up the valley side and draw the scouts away from you. You head the other way – down the valley towards the seal. The wall will give you cover to approach the sword.’

I was not happy about leaving my father to fend for himself against a well-armed scouting party, but there were few options. I agreed with a nod and watched as he scrambled silently from our hiding place. I ran in the opposite direction, downwards and towards the seal, until I slid to a stop and lay behind the wall of rubble. At that moment a number of things occurred at once. To my right I saw Melchisedek Tob, albeit still a good distance from me, crouched behind a line of boulders, head down and preoccupied with his rituals of prevention. There was no sign of Khaled. But beyond Tob in the distance I spied a second line of scouts, well spread, commencing a sweep towards him from the opposite side of the valley. I heard a shout echo through the gloaming and glanced back to see my father disappearing over a ridge at the valley-top, picked out against the deep bronze of the setting sun. He was followed by a few Petrovingian scouts and blue-clad Dudael knights, clouds of dust billowing in their wake as they scrabbled up the rocky incline. The army below, all alerted, turned towards the source of the shouting; a ripple passed through them – noise and motion as the troops stood and drew their weapons, sounding for all the world like the crashing of waves on a sea of chains.

On the far side of the valley the scouts had seen Tob, who was still oblivious to the events around him. The rabbi was now standing, one hand held aloft and the other wielding a staff which he used to mark a ring of points in the dust. He was an easy target for archers and I saw that the scouts were already pointing and notching arrows to their bows. I would have to go to him and get him back under cover. As one of the scouts took aim, Khaled emerged from the landscape, almost as though he had spirited himself there by sorcerous means. He moved stealthily, sword drawn, and hacked the scout down with one swift movement. I smiled to myself. The Muslim was a wily old fox.

I was ready to run to Tob’s aid when, casting a final glance round, I suddenly froze. A unit of scouts was moving directly towards me, around the edge excavation pit. I had not yet been spotted, but would be soon enough, and the scouts would have me outflanked. Worse still, my eye caught a figure crawling up the valley side towards Tob – a thin, stooped figure draped in a filthy smock and carrying a knife. Benito. What in Hell’s name was he doing? I felt a tang of panic in my throat as I recalled the words of my would-be executioners: Benito had been released from his crucifixion-pole and was ‘doing the Master’s work.’ There was no doubt that Benito was now totally under the influence of the Patriarch; the hermit was an instrument whose purpose was to extinguish the threat posed by Tob, the only adversary with powers to challenge the Petrovingian’s dark will.

CHAPTER 61

I moved fast. A scout was now just a few yards away. I leapt from cover and scrambled towards him. He was taken completely by surprise as I charged and threw him into the dust. I drew a dagger and knifed him where he lay. The other scouts turned. I was too close for them to use their bows. They unsheathed glinting curved short swords and came forward. In a few breaths they would be on me. Kneeling, I grabbed the dead scout’s bow, plucked a handful of arrows from his quiver and aimed one at Benito. The bow creaked as I drew it and fired. The bolt fell wide of its target. Damn it. I took my sword and swung it at the five or so scouts. One of them came for me and I hacked down at him, parrying his strike and cleaving his shoulder. I swung wildly again and the scouts backed off, giving me time to scramble further up the valley to a better vantage point. I aimed again and let loose another bolt. This was closer but nevertheless arced harmlessly over Benito’s head. The hermit was close to the rabbi now, circling him as a wolf circles its prey. Tob had finally acknowledged the approaching threat. He gestured for the hermit to move back, waving at him with his staff. In moments Benito would be close enough to strike.

The scouts came at me again. I grunted as I swung the sword, so much more unwieldy than the mighty Shalat. I was lucky – the swing cut a deep wound in the neck of a scout and he collapsed, black blood spraying his leather corselet. Two of them lunged at me. I ducked, rolled to one side and hacked at their legs, felling one. I finished him off with a sword-point to the head and glanced up. Benito was now on the rabbi, grabbing at his robes. Tob grappled back, trying to push the hermit away, but even from a distance I could tell that Benito was strong, filled with the Patriarch’s vigour. He held Tob in a firm grip and raised his knife.

This was my final chance. I hacked upwards at the scout, catching him under the arm, and hacked again with more force, severing muscle and tendon. The scout gurgled and backed away. I snatched the bow, drew an arrow to my ear, felt the flight on my cheek. I took a breath and set the bolt loose. It sped towards its target and nicked Benito’s arm, but it was not enough to distract him from his task. Indeed, he did not react at all. I watched in horror as Benito plunged the knife into Melchisedek Tob’s heart. Once, twice, again and again. No pity. No remorse.

I wailed, as much in pain as in grief. Looking down, I saw a blade in my side. The remaining scout had crept behind me and stuck me with a dagger. I swung round and elbowed him in the face, pulling his own weapon from my wound and stabbing him in the neck. He crumpled to the ground, spraying gore.

Khaled, still fending off his assailants, saw Tob�ssai��s murder too. He turned and screamed then ran from his melee towards the rabbi. Benito was already fleeing the scene, crawling swiftly over rocks like an insect and melting into the troops below. I began limping towards Tob, clutching my side. Dark blood was dribbling through my black surcoat and caking my fingers. Each step felt like another stab; I could barely catch my breath and I poured with sweat. Any remaining vitality I had was seeping away with the blood. With a last dreg of effort I hobbled over the rocks and collapsed next to Tob’s lifeless body. His torso was a mess of blood and wounds, his face grey, his eyes lifeless. And at that moment I recalled Benito’s dream of the wolf, in which I had tried and failed to kill the creature with three arrows. At the time it seemed like so much nonsense from the mouth of a lunatic, and paid it no heed. But he had asked me if I had a longbow and begged me to use it. ‘Practice, practice, as hard as you can. Come the day – and it will come - you must not miss. You must kill the wolf or everything is lost.’ I could never have guessed that he was the wolf, and his dream a premonition of this moment. I wailed and lay my head on Tob’s cooling, bloodied chest. This Jew of the Sun was the gentlest of men, and had been murdered because of me. Had my father not impressed upon me, again and again, from childhood: never stop practising the longbow? And had I not promised I would, but instead foresook my archery for wine and revelry? A thousand curses on my godless ways. I wailed and sobbed without restraint, like a madman.

Khaled had retreated, letting off arrows with a stolen bow to slow the scouts’ advance. He was on me now, his dark eyes flicking between me and Tob’s corpse. ‘Allah protect us’ he exclaimed.

‘The rabbi is dead’ I cried through clenched teeth. ‘Murdered by Benito.’

‘I saw it. This is a dark turn for us Christian. Without the rabbi, I do not know how we can defeat our enemies.’

Arrows hissed passed us. Archers and Volkhy knights were cautiously closing in from both sides.

‘You must retrieve the sword’ cried Khaled. ‘It is our single, remaining hope.’

‘Look at me!’ I spat back. ‘I’ve been stabbed in a fucking kidney! By our Lady, I am dying Khaled. Admit it - there is no hope left. We are all dead.’

He glanced back to me, ducking arrows. And I saw despair in his eyes. He knew our fate as well as I did, but he refused to accept it.

‘No! The rabbi made a covenant with God. He knew his fate, and was ready for it. But he did not sacrifice his life for you to die here.’

At that moment a number of Dudael knights and Volkhy emerged from over the ridge. They scrabbled down the valley side and into the massed ranks of the bristling army below. Their appearance seemed to provoke a ripple of sudden activity. The army came to life, organising itself into tight formations. A detachment of Petrovingian cavalry trotted forward and formed a ring of steel around the seal of Dudael, the Patriarch and his priestly attendants – who remained concentrated on their own diabolical activities.

I looked around; the Petrovingian units approaching on our flanks now halted, looking uncertain. A barked command from a mounted Dudael knight saw them retreat and form up wih the rest of the troops.

A lone figure stumbled over the same ridge from which the enemy rabble had appeared. He ran at full tilt, arms flailing, sword held aloft. A patch of scrub caught his foot and he fell forward, rolling and tumbling down the sandy incline. He dug in his heels, came to a halt and surveyed the landscape before him. Spotting our tiny party, now alone and isolated, perched on the valley wall, he sprinted towards us. Even with failing, tear-filled eyes I could see it was my father. He was bloodied and caked in dust. He ground to a halt before us, gulping down air, wincing as he tried to catch a breath.

‘What has happened?’ Asked Khaled.

‘I do not know’ my father replied, wiping his brow. ‘The scouts and knights that pursued me – I led them into the desert, but they gained on me. I was not swift enough. When they were almost upon me, one of them spied something in the distance. It was enough to cause them to retreat. Or flee. It put the fear of God in them. I thanked the Lord I had been spared and looked to the horizon, and saw an army heading towards us, throwing up dust like a sandstorm. They were moving fast. Perhaps cavalry – I could not tell. But like the others I did not wait – I ran back here with all haste.’

‘What is the army? Who are they? Templars? Mameluks?’

‘Too far away to tell. But we will know soon enough. They will be on us in moments.’

My father looked down at me, sprawled on the ground and clutching my side. Then at Tob, and he collapsed to his knees. ‘My son! Wounded? And the rabbi? Holy Mother, what has befallen us?’

‘That snake Benito’ I muttered, wincing. ‘He crawled out of the mob below and got to the rabbi before we could reach him. Stabbed him in the heart a half-score. But his mind was not his own – the Patriarch steered his blade.’

‘And you my son? You look pale. You are sweating. Let me find you some water.’

He took a flask from nearby scout corpse, knelt beside me and dribbled water into my parched throat. I thanked him with a nod but, in truth, I felt like I was slipping away. I could feel Death nearby, see her veiled face flickering in the desert heat.

The enemy below ignored us; all eyes were on the ridge above, waiting for the approaching army to reveal itself. I took a breath and suddenly felt very cold. We were a pitiful sight. The rabbi lay in his own drying blood, pale as bleached bone, his soul long departed. I was next to him, not far off a corpse myself. My father nursed my head in his lap, but his shoulders sagged; he was haggard and worn, and resembled a wandering beggar more than a noble Templar knight. Khaled stood over us, alert and weapons drawn, but a mask of fear and exhaustion was writ large on his dirt-plastered features. He licked his dry lips, eyes on the horizon.

I shuddered and a breath stuck in my throat. Everything was very quiet. The wind had eased. The infernal chanting of the Patriarch’s minions faded. I reached for my father’s hand. At that moment it felt as though my final breath was about to escape my lips. But as Death’s crooked hand stretched out towards me, my dying eyes looked to the ridge above and were assaulted by a wondrous vision. We weresaved.

CHAPTER 62

After the silence, a sudden cacophony. An army erupted from over the ridge like a boiling wave. Arba was at its vanguard, and he led a company of Repha’im. But not the few I had witnessed at the summit of Mount Hermon. This time there were hundreds, rank after rank, the sun’s dying rays glinting on the tips of their long halberds. They were a terrifying, majestic apparition: silk robes coiling from beneath burnished armour, hair rippling like a hundred black standards. Their unnaturally tall, slender bodies moved almost as one, descending into the valley basin at immense speed with weapons charged in perfect alignment. Their stern, impassive faces were masked by the warpaint they sported: black lips and eyes on snow-white skin, their mouths painted into a forbidding grimace. These giants of the elder times bore down on their quarry with silent, swift resolve. Weapon smashed against weapon; blades tore through armour. The first line of Petrovingian men-at-arms were slashed to bloody ribbons by Repha’im steel, then the second, third, fourth ranks. Lesser men would have routed, but the Petrovingian line held, even though they were stricken with fear and useless against the irresistible Repha’im assault. The Volkhy – the elite mounted guard surrounding the Patriarch’s retinue – were formidable, and they kept the giants at bay with a circle of lances that unfurled like a deadly flower. The press of bodies became a lethal tangle of blood and clashing weapons. A unit of Dudael knights on horseback galloped from the rear of the Petrovingian line and tried to engage with the Repha’im. Their attack swiftly faltered and they were plucked from their mounts, impaled on the blades of the giant halberds, and held kicking and screaming high in the air by the immense strength of the Repha’im warriors. Then the jagged line of halberdiers parted and units of swordsmen emerged, charging into the mass of Petrovingian armour with longswords flailing. They hacked channels of gore through the enemy, grimly scything a human harvest.

The enemy retaliated in kind, parting to create an alley along which a column of heavy cavalry thundered. They came at the Repha’im host with maces and morning stars flailing. The sound of the assault as horses, armour and weapons collided was deafening – waves of steel crashing against unassailable cliffs. Some of the giant warriors were pulled under the storm of warhorses’ hooves and trampled to a pulp. The rest continued their bloody business and parried the cavalry’s attack, dragging knights from their horses and hacking them to pieces. The Petrovingian charge met a wall of halberds and was swiftly halted; their frothing mounts reared and whinnied at the sight of those bristling blades. The Repha’im encircled the cavalry and bore down on them – unearthly vultures feasting on so much carrion. By the time their work was done, the Petrovingian calvary was no more than a stew of dismembered carcasses.

Petrovingian mettle was beginning to falter; the sight of their terrifying adversaries hewing flesh and sinew, opening plumes of blood with grim abandon, was too much to bear. Amidst the shrill roar and clamour of battle, the Petrovingian men-at-arms began to rout, fleeing through their own lines and scrambling up the valley sides out of the murder pit below. Many were caught between the advancing Repha’im and their own nobles, whose resolve remained intact. A detachment of light cavalry blocked their path and ruthlessly hacked down any man who tried to flee. The Repha’im were also enduring more casualties – Petrovingian archers had climbed to higher ground and were now unlashing volleys of lethal bolts into the melee below – felling both the enemy and their own kind. A figure emerged from the Repha’im ranks, flanked by guards. He gestured at one of his generals and two units of swordsmen peeled away from the main engagement, effortlessly climbing the rocky slopes to hack down the bowmen above. They were swift and deadly, like wolves butchering abandoned young. From further behind the enemy lines, Petrovingian dog handlers unleashed their packs of straining hounds. The animals surged forward in a swarm of drool and crazed barking. But as they approached their quarry, many of the brutes ceased their charge, somehow sensing the unnatural nature of their foe and recoiling from it. They scrabbled to a halt, claws clicking against the desert rubble. Whimpering, they circled each other in a confused fashion, and loped off back to their masters. Those that were too frenzied to halt were butchered in moments.

The figure approaching our miserable band was Arba. He remained impossibly regal, even though he was slick with blood up to his elbows, immaculate armour and silk finery saturated with gore, pale features splattered with human rouge.

‘What has happened to our merry band?’ he queried in his louche manner, smiling faintly. ‘The Jew is dead. We foresaw this. But Alaric of Sarafand? You appear injured. And who is this?’

‘Lord Arba, this is my father’ I croaked.

Arba’s face darkened. ‘So. You are the one called Ranulph, the Templar who has provoked us greatly.’

Father’s expression swung from awe to remorse. He lowered his head to the floor, in the Muslim fashion. ‘I beg forgiveness. I meant to do good by my actions, but that has come to aught.’

The Repha’im burst into melodious peals of laughter. As always, his reactions were utterly unpredictable. ‘Do good? Indeed. Indeed. We noted the seed of your folly many moons ago, for there are those of us gifted with the arts of divination. We foresaw all that has come to pass, which is why we bestowed the sword on your son. Should your ambition to “do good” ever succeed, the Shalat would defend against such meddling.’

Father looked thoroughly humbled, as though he were an errant boy chastened by his master. Arba chuckled again and gestured towards the battle with his bloodied longsword. ‘But do not be downhearted. Can you not smell the tang of war? The scent of blood-letting? It is a most… exhilarating pastime.’

He pointed the tip of his blade so that it hovered an inch from my face. ‘We came here because of you, Alaric of Sarafand. We saw that your task would falter without our aid. Much as it pains us to engage in human affairs, on this occasion we chose to make an exception. But it has not happened for eight hundred years.’

‘Thank you’ I groaned.

‘We see that you are dying.’

I nodded.

‘Where is the sword?’

I pointed weakly towards the Cave of Dudael. ‘The Patriarch has it.’

‘So be it.’ The Repha’im grinned brodly. ‘Then you must claim it back.’

While the battle raged below, Arba attended to my wound. He worked swiftly and carefully, first administering a dose of his precious opium, then applying various powders and tinctures from a pouch on his belt. His knowledge of medicine was beyond human comprehension. I caught Khaled’s eye as he watched Arba at work.

‘Lord Arba’s skill outstrips even your own eh, my Muslim friend?’

Khaled smiled and nodded. ‘By Allah, with a wound such as you have, you should be a dead man by now. Lord Arba has fended off Death’s hand and saved you.’

‘I know. Death came for me. I saw her.’

Arba bade me drink from an ornate silver flask, and I felt vitality return. ‘Stand up little man’ he commanded. I did so, tentatively. The pain in my side was like a thousand needles, despite Arba’s powerful balms. But I was alive, and I could walk.

‘It is a miracle’ mumbled my father, tears in his eyes.

Arba scowled. ‘No. Not a miracle. Though Purgatory’s angelic stewards will punish our soul for it nevertheless.’ He turned to me, and held out the silver flask. ‘Take this – you may need it again. We have made you whole again for now, but it will not last. You may yet fall into eternal sleep. So while you have breath, come with us – you have work to do.’

CHAPTER 63

Father remained with Tob’s body, guarded by a Repha’im sentinel, while Khaled accompanied Arba and me. It was dark now, although a crystalline moon and a dazzling mantle of stars illuminated the night – they seemed to shine brighter than I had even seen before, as though they were reaching down to brush against the earth. I could not tell whether Arba’s drugs had addled my mind to perceive things thus, or whether it was true. The battle still raged below us, the armies illuminated in part by the guttering fires encircling the Cave of Dudael. But the Repha’im had pushed back the Petrovingian horde so that the Patriarch’s retinue, surrounded by a protective cordon of heavy cavalry, was now isolated. Nevertheless, the priests within had not once ceased their rituals, even through all the noise and violence of the battle.

Arba led us down into the killing fields. From a distance the battle had seemed almost like a piece of raucous, violent theatre – a carnival of bloodletting played out before us. But now, at close quarters, it was a shocking assault on the senses. The clamour was overwhelming – growls, piercing screams and the clash of metal. A sensation gripped me, one that I had experienced hundreds of times before. It was a heady mix of fear and bloodlust. I felt my pulse quicken and bowel loosen; sweat leapt from every pore. I licked my dry lips as my body adjusted to the terror. While the noise was a deafening martial roar, the smells were earthy and sweet – a foul stew of blood, ordure, sweat and vomit. And the scenes my eyes witnessed were all as brutish and depraved as worst of Hell’s offerings; pink, glistening innards exposed to the night air; geysers of blood; shattered bones and crushed organs leaking dark bile. And yet these things were familiar to me, and being amongst them stirred a dumb frenzy in my gut.

I looked left and right, watching men and beasts grapple each other like butchers wrestling cattle for slaughter. Black smoke billowed across the blasted landscape as blades rose and fell, sawing through bone and sinew. Silhouetted against flame and sky, they could have been daemonic farmhands tilling the corpse-soil.

I felt a rumble beneath my feet. It shook the rocks and scrub of the desert and was violent enough to cause the most murderous knight to cease his work for an instant and look up. Arba ignored it in the same way he ignored the carnage, his lithe body sweeping gracefully past the mutilated bodies of the fallen. ‘Azazel rouses’ he said by way of explanation, but the vibration had already eased. Arba gestured towards the heart of the melee, where Repha’im were locked in bloody combat with the elite Petrovingian cavalry. ‘Beyond that ring of horsemen is where you will find the Shalat. Seize it and prepare to use it – Azazel will be amongst us presently.’ His black lips spread into a grin. ‘Follow us. We will carve you a bloody pathway through the enemy.’

I hobbled after him as he called upon a pair of Repha’im halberdiers. Flanking Arba, they raised their weapons and charged into the serried mass of steel. The horsemen of the Petrovingian elite were some of the finest warriors I had seen – fearless and tenacious atop their black steeds. But Arba was irrepressible, and his swordplay a lethal dance. He felled one horse, then another, cutting the beasts down with wide arcs of his long blade, and dismembering the riders even as their mounts listed and fell. While the other cavalry tried to close the breach, Arba beckoned me forward and, with a flourish, ushered me through the brief gap. Sweat had made his warpaint run; black rivulets streaked his face and dripped from his chin. He smiled maniacally: ‘step inside little man – and confront your destiny!’ His strange, swirling eyes widened and he burst into peals of laughter. I staggered through the cordon as the Repha’im locked blades again with the enemy. The Petrovingian cavalry, to a man, were all engaged in bitter combat; amidst the darkness and the chaos of battle, my trespass was barely noticed.

As soon as I stepped within, another spasm wracked the ground – this time more violent than the first. I lost my footing and fell painfully. Touching my wound, I saw that the bleeding had started again. No time to worry now. ‘Lord, spare me a martyr’s death’ I muttered.

Fire illuminated the scene – fire from the huge guttering pits and braziers that encircled the entrance to the cave of Dudael. The walls and steps were slick with blood from the murdered monks. The Petrovingian boy-priest and his neophytes stood before Patriarch’s carriage, swinging incense-spewing thuribels, chanting incessantly. And before them stood the Shalat, suspended from its supports, its bright blade reflecting the dancing flames. It was strangely quiet within the circle, as though we were protected from the battle raging beyond the cordon of cavalry by unseen walls. Although I had the cover of darkness to aid me I was still in open ground. The Patriarch’s sentinels were stationed around his shrine but I saw no other guards. I knew that as soon as I made for the Shalat I would be discovered, and all hell would break loose. I would likely be cut down before I was halfway close to the sword. At that moment, in the middle of the circle, one of the sentinels stepped forward and, led by a black-clad neophyte, approached the Shalat. The neophyte gestured and the sentinel lifted the weapon from its supports, one hand on the hilt and the other on its blade.

div height="0" width="0"> A third tremor shook us all then, so that all were thrown to the floor. The ground convulsed and a piercing crack echoed through the night, drowning out the roar of battle. It was as though the earth itself was wracked with birthing pains before disgorging a terrible progeny. In the sudden clamour I rushed forward. After a few breaths I was just yards away, still unnoticed by the priesthood engrossed in their summoning. But the guard bearing the Shalat spied me, and he raised the weapon. As he did so his swords arm wavered; the blade seemed to writhe in his grasp and, in an abrupt but unnatural movement, he brought the glistening steel down onto his own neck, as though the sword had guided his hand against his will. His eyes were wide with terror as the sword bit into his throat, black blood hissing from the wound. The guard fell to his knees, arms flailing, and the Shalat remained embedded at the base of his neck. I lunged forward, grabbing the sword hilt and twisting the blade. Bones cracked and splintered, and the guard’s neck-wound opened like rotten timber. He fell forward, head lolling, and dropped into the dust.

The boy-priest and his coterie, wrenched from their litanies by the quaking desert, now saw me before them, and a look of twisted hatred spread across the boy’s face. Maybe a flicker of dismay was writ there too. Either way, his red lips rapidly spread into a triumphant smile, and the Patriarch’s bone-dry rasp issued forth: ‘late is your arrival. Untimely your rescue, impotent your actions. For the Great Work is now complete! Ashaklun, he is unbound. Azazel, he is freed.’

But I did not fear his words. The Shalat was returned to its bearer and I could feel its cold vitality course into me. The sword was full of pent-up energy; it vibrated in my hand and expelled a low keen. I was elated – if a goliard had discovered Bacchus’s own wine cellar, he would not have been happier than I was then.

The Patriarch’s remaining Sentinels trotted forward, flaming torches in hand, to protect the boy-priest. But their advance came to a rapid halt. I was no longer the object of their attentions; they looked beyond me, fear in their eyes. I turned and saw the wall around the Cave of Dudael collapse from a sudden convulsion of the earth. The fires around it guttered as though buffeted by dust devils. A mighty force, such as that from an alchemist’s cannon powder, propelled the bronze seal enclosing Azazel’s prison high into the night air. It landed with a loud clang somewhere out in the darkness of the desert. Then silence. The battle around us had ceased. Hundreds of expectant faces looked towards the pit. No screams, no clash of weapons. Not a single noise penetrated the warm night air. It was as though nature itself held its breath. Or perhaps all of nature had fled, or died. A faint Hadian glow illuminated the mouth of the unsealed cave; the air rippled above it like a furnace. Moments passed like hours and I felt the eyes from the surrounding army bore through me as they stared as one upon the pit of Azazel. The smallest movement at its rim caused my stomach to churn. Something was emerging. My eyes flicked to the neophyte standing nearby; his black-gloved hands trembled uncontrollably.

CHAPTER 64

Then, first interred when the world was still young, come from Heaven to corrupt mankind, the dishonoured angel known as Azazel crawled forth. A pair of blackened hands, nails like talons, spread slowly through the dust and clasped a pile of rubble. Glistening arms and elbows rested on the li the pit to haul his body up and out. A lowered head rose into the night, steam coiling from ropes of matted hair. A giant pair of ragged black wings, drawn together, rose gracefully from the opening and then carefully unfurled like the rotten sails of an ancient ship. He was a wounded bird of a creature, lying face-down in the dust, wings rising listlessly with each slow breath. He made no sound, and lay quite still for some time. Then, with huge effort, the creature drew up onto his haunches. Steam continued to rise from his broad back. He slowly raised his head, still obscured by veils of filthy hair and, in a sudden movement threw his head back; coils of hair swung up and away, slapping into the ground behind. His face – indeed his whole body – was stained black with the filth of ages; his dark skin glistened in the firelight, as though his centuries of internment had been spent soaking in tar. Azazel might once have had a handsome, muscular face. He raised it now towards the sky, a trace of a smile on his oily lips. His eyes remained closed. He drew in the longest, deepest of breaths, held it and expelled it with an almighty sigh. Azazel inhaled again, and again and with every breath he increased in presence; his chest expanded, his tattered wings flexed and snapped with growing vigour. The creature seemed oblivious to his surroundings, to the vast army arrayed before him. With an almost beatific smile on his blackened face, he spoke quietly – almost to himself. His first words were faltering, mouthed by lips unused to speaking. Yet his deep, sonorous voice carried across the silent valley to reach the ears of all those gathered in that place.

‘The air. It is less… pure now. This… this realm… was but a virgin grove when those… Hm. Those… blissful vapours first aroused my lust. Yet I have dreamed this moment a thousand times… When the wind would once again… caress me with her lively tresses.’

After a pause, his eyes flickered open; he blinked and squinted. They were yellowed after an infinity under the earth, but his strange pupils danced and spun just the same as Arba’s. Azazel arched his back and cast those eyes up to the night sky.

‘Long have I been tormented by visions of the numberless stars, the horned moon. They brought remembrance of the state from which I fell, and made my dungeoned doom bleaker still. For there is aught to measure day or night amidst the flames, making one day a forlorn and bitter eternity.’

He sighed and stood up, stretching his arms towards the sickle moon, tendons creaking after generations of confinement. Azazel was at least twice the height of a man. If I had not already been witness to all manner of horrors, any last vestiges of courage would have abandoned me, and I would have fled screaming into the night. Indeed, many of the men behind me were on their knees, hands shielding their eyes from the desert demon’s terrifying presence.

For the first time, Azazel cast a steady gaze over us, and his nostrils flared. ‘A weariness is upon this realm. I can sense the burden you Earth-born beings have placed upon it. When I first sped through the vast sky, between one world and the next; when I travelled the Empyreal road until arrival upon this bounteous realm, mankind was but a tribe, the Earth a stripling.’

He inhaled again. ‘Yes. Where the Earth was once a blissful field, it is now a ravaged heath. And I am assailed by the odour of blood spilled. The grave yawns for an army of souls. You have multiplied. Created in God’s similitude, yet as wretched as the crows.’

He grinned, his teeth obsidian-black shards, and placed one foot in front of the other, his ragged wings providing balance for an act last performed centuries ago. Like a cured cripple he walked forwards, black feet crunching amidst the rubble. And as he did so the army before him recoiled in fear. As one, friend and foe alike withdrew and parted to make way for Azazel, like some mockery of Moses’ miracle at the Red Sea.

Azazel looked up and laughed at us, gurgling with pleasure at how he held us in his thrall. He lifted a clawed hand and pointed towards us, casting his blackened arm this way and that.

‘When we Seraph first watched the vernal Earth, we begged Him that we may descend and attend those fair creatures that appeared clad in godlike majesty. Tall and noble, yet simple and innocent, they excelled even our own celestial radiance. “Let us dwell on the Earth awhile, and we will sanctify Your name” we pleaded. He consented and our angelic host alighted on the holy mountain of Hermon, where the daughters of men approached us, meek and submissive, as though we were gods. As you do now!’

He laughed again. Then as suddenly as he had started, the laughter stopped, replaced by a grimace. He seemed prone to the same sudden and erratic moods as his son, Arba.

‘Ah, but the torment that seized us then! We were creatures of spirit – pure and incorruptible in our own Heaven – thrust into the corporeal realm and beguiled by the lure of things made flesh. The daughters of men turned their lascivious eyes upon us and we, in helpless naivety, descended into sweet wretchedness. Those corrupting virgins bade us taste of their nectar, and we willingly slaked our thirst. We took them as wives, and taught them the forbidden knowledge. We relished the world of sin, incarcerated in our fleshy prisons, committing vice for vice’s sake.’

Azazel strode amongst us, only half aware of our existence. Occasionally he would glance up and start, anchored back into the here-and-now from a sea of ancient memories. His great frame swung past me mere feet away and the Shalat moaned and juddered in my grip. I used all my strength to prevent the sword from lashing out at its quarry, but the fallen angel seemed unaware that his doom lay so near, and I remained unnoticed and anonymous in the dark. But there was another who did seek Azazel’s attention. Through the great milling horde of men a figure emerged, and even in the darkness I could tell it was Arba. He strode forward to stand before his father, followed by other Repha’im. He clasped a sword in one bloodied hand. His pale, streaked features flickered in the dancing light of the fire pits, and in an uncharacteristic moment of lost composure, he licked his lips and nervously smoothed his black mane. I could only imagine how Arba must feel seeing his father for the first time in millennia, whilst executing a plan of which he was the chief architect – a plan that would culminate in the death of his estranged parent.

‘Do you know who we are?’ he exclaimed in a clear, perfectly pitched voice – but there was little authority in it.

Azazael rested chin on fist, then flicked his clawed forefinger into the air. ‘You are both like and unlike the children of men. But my mind is still dulled and tormented. I confess I do not know you, though something in your demeanour stirs my spirit.’

Arba swallowed hard ad replied. ‘We are Repha’im. The seed of woman and Watcher. Your sons.’

Azazel’s yellow eyes blinked. ‘Sons? But did the Lord not declare my offspring a blasphemy? Did He not command Raphael and the angelic host to destroy the giants brought forth by the daughters of men?’

‘He did. Raphael’s horde slaughtered most of the children of fornication, and also your own angelic kin. Some of us survived nonetheless. Later on, the Lord sowed enmity between the Repha’im, so that we perished by mutual slaughter. But still a number of us endured to walk the Earth, cloaked in immortality yet hidden from the eyes of men. We have survived against the wishes of the Almighty, an impious and unholy presence amidst His creation.’

Azazel’s yellow eyes danced with glee at this news. ‘Sons! Wondrous union of spirit and flesh! While I remained wrapped in chains in this seat of desolation, my unfettered progeny trod the Earth. Oh how that would have displeased the King of Heaven!’

He approached the assembled Repha’im and leaned in towards them. ‘What is your name, my son?’

‘Arba.’

Azazel nodded and smiled. ‘Arba. And what of your mother? I have no remembrance of her.’

Arba shook his head. ‘She died in childbirth, as did all the mothers of the Repha’im. The tribe of Earth-born beings known as the Sethites raised us as their own. In time, a sect called the Druzes became our guardians, protecting us from the prying eyes of Heaven and Earth.’

Azazel nodded and held his blackened arms out towards his sons. ‘Come – embrace me, your father.’

Arba stepped back and swallowed hard. ‘No. I… I cannot.’

Azazel frowned and his voice grew stern. ‘What? I have dwelled in furnaced perdition for all eternity. Unpitied and unreprived by the Almighty. You, my son, have released me from my bonds and returned me to the world of men. And yet you deny me a paternal embrace? Obey me! Obey me, your father and master!’

At this moment the Patriarch’s boy-priest, who had been lurking with his neophytes nearby, strode forward, genuflecting towards the desert demon.

‘Lord Azazel’ he began, his expansive cloak glittering in the firelight. ‘Great Ashaklun, Steward of Kheshokha, Son of Mastema. It was not these treasonous creatures that summoned you here. It was I. The Black Lord of Petrov, King of Woe, Prince of Curses. Limitless is my loyalty, great are my efforts, undimmed my desire. In your dreams have you seen my ambition: lakes of ash, cities razed, corpse piled on corpse. A blackened sun and a red moon. And I know you are pleased by such things.’

Azazel turned to survey the pale-faced boy before him, then glanced back to Arba. ‘Yes. Yes. I have seen such things, And whilst in that woeful dungeon, void of all light, they did fuel the fire of my revenge... But what is this talk of treason?’

The Petrovingian boy-priest thrust a finger towards Arba. ‘Your own son would be your nemesis’ he spat. ‘He would see you burn in he Earth until the day that Dendayen himself is consumed. Great is his disloyalty. Not modest his disobedience. By my hand were you unchained, so that we might make a study of vengeance together. Look not to your offspring, for you will find neither fealty nor succour there. Make me as your son, and I will cast these false sons like hay into the fire, and like lead into the water!’

But the Shalat was also baying for revenge and, even while I looked on awestruck, dumbly debating a course of action, the sword propelled me towards the boy-priest. It bucked in my grasp and thrust outwards with a speed that I alone would not be capable of. I followed the line of the blade to see its forked tip embedded in the boy-priest’s heart. His watery eyes stared into mine and I knew in that moment the Patriarch’s spirit had abandoned its young host; the cold malice in his stare had gone, to be replaced by the confused, pained eyes of the child Falkon. He looked down at the mortal wound in his chest, gasped and died. His lifeless body slipped away from the Shalat’s blade and crumpled into the dust. At least in his last moments he was free of the Patriarch’s diseased will. Death would be a merciful release for him, and he could rejoin his parents in the life to come.

CHAPTER 65

In the few heartbeats it had taken for the Shalat to end Falkon’s life, the muted mass of Petrovingian troops were roused to action. Stirred by the death of their sorcerer-king, the loyal ranks of knights and men roared their anguish and unleashed a ragged charge. Repha’im warriors hacked many of them down, but some still broke beyond the reach of the giants’ swords and staggered in my direction. The Patriarch’s neophytes hurled themselves at me like devils, clawing at my eyes with their bare hands. In reply the Shalat sung a keening hymnal and bit deep into bone and sinew. The blade pirouetted in my desperate grip, opening wounds and revelling in the slaughter of the doomed. A black mask slipped from a neophyte’s face; beneath was a mess of flesh devoid of humanity – in honour of their master’s corpus mundi, the jaw had been removed; nose and ears sliced away; eyes burned out.

Amidst the sudden maelstrom of violence, Azazel looked about him confusedly. He growled and lurched towards me. ‘Treachery!’ he bellowed. ‘My disloyal sons have broken their fealty and sinned against their only father. Now this man of blood spills the blood of one who honours me, and in so doing has invoked my wrath. But I will vanquish them and restore my own glory and dominion.’

Ragged wings snapping, he pushed aside both giant and human like so many reeds. I saw Azazel approach but could do little in response – the Shalat had a will I could not resist and at best I was able to cling to its grip while the blade swung and sang in righteous abandon. In moments the black and glistening form of Azazel was upon me. The Shalat continued to fell Petrovingians left and right, but its unearthly keening grew to a piercing scream. Azazel reached out a clawed, calloused hand and, in a sudden manoeuvre which was not my own, the Shalat swung inside the desert demon’s guard and sunk deep into his oily thigh. Azazel growled like a hundred desert lions as the Shalat vibrated furiously, filling me with icy vitality. The sword had finally fulfilled its only purpose and it sung triumphantly. In a rare moment of control I withdrew the Shalat from its fleshy scabbard and staggered backwards. The blade glowed and Azazel’s wound smoked. He writhed and gnashed in anguish, clutching his thigh.

Filled with a fierce glee and almost drunk on the blade’s vigour, I stared at Azazel as he howled on his knees, and I shouted ‘this is a sword from the armoury of God. Its name is Shalat – one of the three swords of power. It is brother to Shalhebeth and Damocles. Drawn from the hip of mighty Raphael to vanquish you when the world was young. Now I am its bearer, and it smites you once again!’

I circled the thrashing black mass that was the desert demon and moved closer to deliver the killing blow. ‘I am fated to send you to the boiling fires’ I yelled. ‘You cannot resist the Shalat’s vengeance, demon. Back to the pit with you.’

But as I raised the blade to strike, Azazel looked up and fixed me with a yellowed stare of pure fury. ‘You?’ he spat. ‘You will not subdue me. I will deliver ye all to woe – all ye ignoble Earth-bound mockeries!’

He lashed out and grabbed my neck with a hand the size of a bear’s – and with a grip to match. My breath was crushed in my throat; I could hear my own bones and tendons groaning under the pressure. I gasped and gurgled but he held me in a relentless grip. I was as helpless as wounded prey. As my sight blurred and faded, I felt the Shalat slip from my grasp and with it any last remaining vitality.

‘Leave him.’ I heard Arba’s sonorous voice and craned my neck to see. The Repha’im stood before Azazel, surrounded by what remained of the bloodied race of giants. Their weapons were drawn and angled as one towards the desert demon. I also saw that Khaled and my father were with them. Arba looked grim – tired and grey and slaked with gore. Yet his voice had authority now.

‘This man must bear the Shalat because of the sins of his father. For it was he who first conceived the notion that you could be summoned – but to do good, or at least good as he saw it. Yet we too have endured the sins of the father. By your selfish desire were we Repha’im conceived. But we exist in conflict with Nature and against the will of God. We are aberrations. We are consigned to a life of immortality while our soul lies imprisoned in Purgatory. Yet while our corporeal lives are tormented, there is much here to cherish, and we would not give up our immortal earthly lives for the endless agony of the eternal fires. We knew you could not be tamed; we knew you would not do our bidding, nor submit to the will of the black pope known as the Patriarch. We know our father well. You are consumed with hatred and revenge. You would lay waste to this world – and all the souls in it – out of selfish spite, just as you imparted the forbidden knowledge to mankind and, in doing, cursed it forever.’

Azazel sneered, baring his obsidian teeth. ‘Truly you are my son, for all that you say is right. The one called Elohim Aibishter commanded that I should be cast into darkness for the blasphemy and oppression I taught. Pursued by the Sepharic hunter Raphael, I was defeated by the very sword that wounds me now. Bound hand and foot, the victor cast me into the cave where I would remain forever, until the Day of Judgement. Neither relief, nor mercy, nor supplication would be mine. Chained in the infernal pit and sealed therein, I endured His infinite anger. But whilst in that doleful place I heard whispered promises, intimations of liberty – a restoration of freedom revoked. Filled with hope, I covertly planned a vengeful insurrection against Him and made my hatred an immortal enterprise. Now freedom is mine. I care not how it came to pass. Even though He stolemy pride; even though His grace long perished, yet my spirit remains invincible – and vigour returns. As once I wandered over this realm, I will walk again, with uneasy steps growing bolder as my dignity is restored. Then I will eviscerate His creation and make wanton war with Heaven here on Earth.’

‘No!’ commanded Arba. ‘We will not allow it. You will have to defeat your own son before such things comes to pass.’ Arba stepped forward, his sword-arm raised.

Azazel grunted and cast me aside, then slowly rose to his feet. ‘You would have me take up arms against my own children? So be it.’ He selected a long halberd from the discarded arsenal scattered across the sand.

Arba’s face was set with grim determination. He swiped his blade through the air, this way and that. ‘Hekas, Hekas, Este Bebeloi’ he cried, and stepped forward.

To the east, the sky began to redden as Arba and Azazel hurled themselves at each other; father and son doing bloody battle amidst steaming corpses and broken blades. The few remaining combatants – Petrovingian, Templar, Repha’im – all leaned against their weapons and looked on silently in horrid, exhausted fascination.

I rolled in the dust, body broken and punctured. Every breath and movement was an agony. Fumbling in my jerkin for the silver flask given by Arba, I unscrewed the cap with shaking and filthy hands and dribbled the precious liquor between cracked lips. I reached out clumsily for my sword but could not find it. A crunch of footsteps made me look round and Khaled was beside me. He knelt down, holding the nafra – the jade talisman fashioned to ward off Djinn. He nodded in the direction of the combat. ‘Arba cannot win. But then neither can Azazel – both are immortal beings.’

‘What must we do?’ I winced.

‘Azazel must still be defeated – by the Shalat. You observed what anguish a single wound causes him. But it was not a mortal wound. You must deliver a blow from which he will not recover.’

I nodded. ‘Yes, though God alone knows how. As an adversary, he is without compare.’

‘Which is why we need more help. Now that the rabbi is no longer with us, we must look elsewhere for aid.’ Khaled held the nafra before me.

‘Your talisman – to defend against the demon Kabikaj. But what of it?’

‘I will destroy it – here, now. Without the ward to protect me the Ifrit Kabikaj will be summoned, like a bee to nectar. The Djinn of Insects does not discriminate, does not show mercy. His intelligence is bestial; to him, all are prey – especially other creatures of darkness. Kabikaj is a spirit of the wicked – a solitary demon of the wilderness. He will not tolerate a potential rival. He may attack me, but he will certainly attack Azazel. They will be as two lone wolves fighting out of pride.’

‘By our Lady, it sounds a dangerous plan. What if you are wrong? What if the Ifrit attacks us all?’

‘That is a risk. But I am certain we will be safe. Azazel will be the sole object of his rage.’

I shrugged. ‘Then do it. We have nothing to lose.’

CHAPTER 66

Khaled stood up and moved towards the scene of the ferocious battle between father and son. Azazel, looming over his opponent, was a massive tangle of ruined wings and hulking limbs; his swordplay was clumsy and inelegant, but if a blow made contact it would be lethal to anyone. In contrast, Arba was the paragon of martial grace; his curved blade danced in the chill morning air, his silk robes snapped in the desert wind. Both of these deviant creatures were equally determined to defeat the other; father and son – related and divided by an unholy bond of blood. They circled and lunged, neither speaking, only grunting or gasping in pain or exertion. Arba seemed to have gained the advantage – his dancing blade had inflicted a hundred cuts on his father’s glistening black hide. Azazel now laboured under these wounds and the wound inflicted by the Shalat, so that his legs wavered and his halberd dragged; it was a weight too great for his weary arms and he dropped the weapon. Seizing his moment, Arba rushed in, sword flickering like sunlight on water. Azazel reared back and his huge mass toppled to the floor, billowing dust. Arba made to strike but his father rolled to one side, and the blade pierced Azazel’s outstretched wing. The desert demon reached to one side and swung his knotted arm forward. His blackened fingers scrabbled in the dirt, searching for another weapon. He found one, and he too now wielded a sword. Still prostrate he stabbed the blade into his son’s torso, through lacquered armour and into flesh. Arba convulsed where he stood and expelled a blood-curdling scream. Then he crumpled to the floor and died. The desert demon released his hand from the sword’s grip and growled in agony – his huge palm smoked as though the hilt was white-hot. Then a horrible realisation gripped me: Azazel had found the Shalat amidst the battle’s debris and used it to take his son’s life; the Shalat was a sword of power – it could conquer beings normally invincible to mortal weapons. Its purpose was to annihilate Azazel’s otherwise immortal soul. Used against his own progeny, the weapon would do the same. Arba was murdered by the very weapon designed to destroy his father. The Shalat acted blind – it did not distinguish between father and son; the same blood coursed through both their veins, and it was this that cursed Arba now.

The host of giants now realised the fate of their leader and surged forward. Azazel staggered to his feet gasping, wiping sweat and blood from his brow. His yellow eyes glowed with a profane light. ‘Ye miserable vassals. Kneel and worship your Tyrant and Sovereign!’

‘Allaah! Laa ilaaha illa Huwa’ yelled Khaled in reply. He threw the jade nafra in the air and, in one smooth movement, unsheathed his katana and sliced it in two; before both pieces had struck the earth, Khaled had returned the sword to its scabbard.

He retreated a few steps, grinding the dissected nafra underfoot, and recited a prayer of sorts: ‘Allahumma bika nastajiru min-al-khawfi wa-l-halak. Idha kharaja min baytihi qala bi-smi-llah, tawakkaltu ‘ala-llah wa-la hawla wa-la quwwata illa bi-illah.’

He looked up and around nervously, but there was no sign of the Ifrit, and Azazel was preoccupied with his victory over Arba. The desert demon breatheavily, his glistening chest rising and falling as he gasped down lungfulls of air. He winced and touched the wound made by the Shalat, then surveyed the other myriad incisions across his dank black frame. The wailing Repha’im approached to claim their fallen leader and Azazel retreated, clearly no longer harbouring an appetite for combat. He suddenly looked confused and he stared at the prone, grey body of his son as weeping Repha’im tenderly carried it from the battlefield. The desert demon’s body sagged. He examined the burn the holy Shalat had inflicted on his sword-hand. His eyes, now dulled, scanned the horizon. At that moment he seemed to be less the conquering tyrant and more a feeble, lost soul.

Azazel’s eyes were fixed on something in the distance. I forced my prone body into a crouch and followed his line of sight. A dust cloud on a dune caught my attention. It moved towards us with great speed, blackening the pallid sky. In moments it swept down the valley wall and a sound like crashing water flooded our ears; the air was thick with a plague of flies that swept through the battlefield, carpeting the dead and devouring their cold flesh. The odour that accompanied them was an overwhelming, rancid stench. The swarms undulated, coalescing into vague forms and then collapsing. But a feral growl as deep and old as the Abyss marshalled them and they gathered together into a single form – a great giant with reptilian eyes of fire; a glimpse of teeth, a hideous upturned nose, huge ears decorated with skulls and pieces of bone, a knitted mass of horns – all hidden beneath a seething mantle of insects. Kabikaj’s malevolent eyes rested on Khaled; its great maw opened and a roar issued forth, accompanied by a fetid reek. Khaled was pale with terror. ‘A’oodhu bi Kalimaat-illaah-it-Tamaat min sharri maa khalaq’ he recited, over and over. The Ifrit turned to Azazel, who stood watching with weary interest. Kabikaj roared again and the desert demon began to laugh mirthlessly.

‘Who amongst you is foolish enough to summon one from the ranks of the Condemned to repulse me?’ He gestured towards the Ifrit, who now loped towards him with great strides. Azazel raised his hand. ‘Halt, I petition thee, creature of discord. There is no enmity between us.’ The Ifrit continued his advance, barking a warning and a challenge. Azazel spoke again: ‘I command thee fierce spirit - halt. An infernal regent am I – sceptered by our lord himself. By his authority – attend to me lesser being, and obey!’

The Ifrit halted, his furious eyes reduced to slits. Azazel spoke once more, this time in the black, brutal tongue of the Djinn. In response Kabikaj growled uncertainly, blinked and then slowly genuflected – now apparently understanding Azazel’s words. The transformation was extraordinary – the daemonic brute had suddenly become like a supplicant, a tame hound.

‘You and I are united in our defiance toward the vault of Heaven’ declared Azazel. ‘We are as brothers – all those that stand amongst the doomed legions are kin.’

The Ifrit crouched at his new master’s feet, enveloping them both in living coils of pestilence. ‘Kabikaj, Damael’ exclaimed Azazel. ‘You embrace me when my own child would not. But my strength fades; I grow weary and feeble. Take me to our captain, wherever he abides. These mortal beings offend me now; they make me sick at heart.’

The Ifrit barked an acknowledgement and turned to leave, but his terrible gaze rested on Khaled and the beast suddenly lurched towars him, streams of flies curling away like an obscene train. The Ifrit stopped abruptly, so close that Khaled was himself encircled by a column of insects. Kabikaj’s infernal eyes flickered with hellish fire and rested for a long moment on the Earth-bound being before him. Khaled held his ground, although I could see he was overwhelmed with terror and revulsion.

Azazel called to his pet: ‘No. Leave this one. He has been your quarry for many years, but I can see into men’s hearts and this one is all mischief and woe. He is more valuable to us alive for now; unbidden, he will achieve our aims for us.’

The Ifrit growled reluctantly in his brutal tongue – a warning that he would maybe return for his spoils one day. Then he turned and departed, a writhing mass of flies borne by the wind to some secret and distant conclave.

Azazel regarded the smoking scene of devastation. He inhaled and winced. ‘I go now for an audience with the Accuser of Mankind, the Great Tempter. We will talk of matters such as this – of war and revenge and fury. There is much to discuss.’

The Repha’im were fearful and unsure what to do. I scanned the ground in the desperate hope I would spy the Shalat, but to no avail. I had certainly wounded the desert demon but he lived on, and if he left now the chances were slim that I would ever see him again.

Azazel stretched his great, ragged wings. He looked to where the Ifrit faded into the horizon, then back to the desperate band of men and giants before him. ‘To set one agent of sin against another is all folly’ he began. ‘For since the moment that the Mother of Mankind tasted the fatal fruit, the seed of evil was planted – to pollute His creation and bear a false and bitter harvest. And henceforth the legions of the Adversary are united in its Enterprise – to tempt the mind of man; to beguile and pervert, to sow enmity and mischief in the hearts of His children for all the days of their life, until death. And while His houses are riven with discord and divided by dogma, the ruinous multitudes conspire in close design towards our common disobedience. And I – I will unfurl Satan’s glittering ensign and carry it to war across lake and mountain, across Thrones, Powers and Princedoms, yea across all these Great Dominions, until my revenge is sated at last.’

With that he turned and strode away towards the dawn. We stood and watched him in silence, and before the morning sun had even cleared the mountains he had disappeared from view.

CHAPTER 67

Vultures and crows picked noisily at the steaming carrion that littered the valley floor. Roughly four-score of the Knights of Dudael – a mongrel mix of Templars, Teutons, Hospitallers and knights-for-hire – had survived and surrendered their arms. My father and a dozen Repha’im now guarded them. The Petrovingian army had been decimated; a few of their men at arms also surrendered, but most had either fled into the desert or were cut down by Repha’im – their feeble screams echoed across the valley and mingled with the cries of the scavenging birds.

I found the Shalat lying intact amidst rubble and broken, lesser weapons. I had also seized some clean water and made a half-hearted attempt to wash the matted blood from my hair, and from my arms and hands. And espite the gore-drenched landscape, the cries of the dead and dying, and the terrible stench of decay, I was ravenous. Staggering across the battlefield I searched every saddlebag until I discovered food – bread and apples, which I devoured.

The Petrovingian Patriarch’s golden carriage stood silent in the morning sun. I circled it, chewing my apple; the doors had been flung open and the shrine itself was empty. All that remained inside were a pair of bloodied hooks, from which the Corpus Mundi would have been suspended, and a pool of foul-smelling mess in the floor of the casket. If the Patriarch’s malformed body was still alive, it must have been stolen away by his attendants in the heat of battle. ‘Slinking away like a snake in the night. I would expect no less from that miserable bastard’ I muttered.

I noticed Khaled picking his way across the smoking forest of broken standards and lances towards me. Two Repha’im, dragging a prisoner between them, accompanied him. Khlaed looked drained of all vigour, but managed to muster a thin smile.

‘This one was found amindst the Petrovingian prisoners. I thought you may want to know that he lives, and decide his punishment for yourself.’

The Repha’im threw the prisoner to the floor, and I immediately recognised him as the Petrovingian warlord who had taken the boy Falkon from his parents, and ordered the mass mutilation of an entire village. I had vowed a terrible retribution on him, and seeing the miserable snake again made barbs of hatred rise in my blood.

‘You dog’ I muttered, and spat upon him, pressing my boot into his throat. ‘Your witch-king has deserted you; your troops are all slaughtered. And now you are my prisoner. Fate is capricious, is she not?’

The warlord’s bloodied features scowled, and his evil blue eyes blazed. But then his lips cracked into a smirk and dry laughter came forth.

‘You may have killed a few of our number, but there are many more to take the place of the noble dead. We are legion. And the Patriarch survives – he was taken from the battle by his most loyal disciples. Be assured, if the Black Lord wishes it, he will empty our lands, and Petrovingia’s minons will hunt you for eternity. They will pursue you in this life and the next. There will be no respite. You will never be free of us.’ He nodded about him. ‘All this is but the first drop in a sea of spilled blood; it is just the beginning.’

I ignored his comments. ‘What should I do with you? You are the Patriarch’s warlord; an important prisoner. It is right and proper that I should offer you mercy in defeat.’

It was the warlord’s turn to spit. ‘I care not for your mercy.’

‘Good’ I replied. ‘Because I do not offer it.’

I crouched, grabbing a discarded halberd blade, and seized his face. Pushing it to one side, I sunk the blade into his skin, at the point where his lower jaw joined the upper. Then I used the blade as a lever, lifting the jaw out of its socket. I sliced the skin around his lips, then down and across the top of his throat. The warlord screamed and gurgled in agony, blood pouring from the wound.

‘Sm out in the desert’ I said, addressing the two Repha’im. ‘Let the vultures have their way with him.’

Then I departed with Khaled, discarding the warlord’s jawbone as I walked.

The Muslim spoke first. ‘My friend. Allah blesses us – we still live and breathe, despite everything that has come to pass.’

I nodded, but did not reply. I was too numb with anger at the memory of the warlord’s atrocities. But as we hobbled back towards the mass of survivors, I calmed and said to him ‘what will happen to you now? Will the Ifrit pursue you again?’

He winced and shrugged. ‘I can do nothing save wait. But I will know if he tries to seek me out again – I will sense him, as I did before. And then…? Allah only knows. Perhaps I will let him take me.’

‘It is a piece of luck that he let you live. Or was it Azazel that commanded him? Strange was it not, that he considered you worth keeping alive?’ It was something that concerned me deeply. Why had Azazel claimed that Khaled’s heart was full of mischief and woe? Why had he said that Khaled would achieve Azazel’s aims?

‘It was indeed strange.’ Khaled’s dark eyes did not meet my gaze.

‘Why do you think then the desert demon said such things?’

Khaled shrugged and turned aside, walking away from me. ‘I do not know Christian. One day we may uncover the truth of it.’

****

The Repha’im attended to their wounded, and eventually to me. My wounds were expertly cleaned, treated and bandaged. One of their kin was called Anak and appeared to lead them, in the wake of Arba’s death. He stood before me as I was administered a cup of restorative liquor. I bowed stiffly. ‘I mourn with you for the loss of your brother and leader.’

Anak nodded his thanks. The pupils in his red-rimmed eyes rotated slowly. ‘His life was a constant agony Alaric, his soul tormented day and night. Death is perhaps a release for him. We all loved him because he was our leader, but also because he was the only one of us punished by God due to his great sin. We witnessed his agonies every day, but there was nothing we could do to help; the medicines he took offered a brief respite, but no more. Azazel was also a great torment for him. Patricide is terrible to contemplate, but it was Arba’s fate to carry that burden, and plan for it over the centuries. We cannot say now whether he is at peace. If Adonai the Lord of Spirits shows mercy, then Arba may be spared the fire. But we are cut off from His grace – we do not have the capacity to appeal to the Him. If you can find it in you Alaric, pray for Arba’s soul.”

‘I will do that. I feel I have failed him. He entrusted the Shalat to me, but I have failed in my task.’

Anak sighed. ‘What will be will be. Arba trusted you. He may still be proved right. In the meantime, we intend to leave presently and take his body to its final resting place. The proper rituals need to be performed.’

‘Yes, of course.’

Anak assembled his force. Many Repha’im had been horribly mutilated, but still they lived on. Those that could not walk were piled onto carts. Yet none of them uttered a sound – they suffered their wounds in silence, stoic and noble to the last. Arba, wrapped in black linen, was laid in a simple carriage pulled by a pair of warhorses.

Anak and two guards leaned on tall halberds as they looked on, watching their comrades file out of the valley. I stood beside them.

‘Thank you for what you did – for coming here and bringing the fight to the Petrovingians. My small band would be dead now, and the Shalat in the hands of the Patriarch, had you not helped us.’

Anak turned his perfect features towards me. ‘It was Arba’s choice. And it was the right decision. We are few, but the sacrifices we made here today were not made grudgingly – we all knew what was at stake, and each gave himself willingly to this cause.’

We shook hands. ‘Some of us will go on ahead to prepare the way’ said Anak. ‘The others will take the lowland path, over the mountains. Arba would want you to have this.’ He reached inside his tunic with a gloved hand and pulled out an object, which he handed to me.

His thin, beautiful lips curved into what may have been a smile. ‘Fare well Alaric. The Shalat remains yours until the task it was created for is completed. If and when you slay the Watcher Azazel, one of us – or perhaps another – will come to claim it. Until that time, you will not see us again.’

Anak and his two guards departed, their lacquered armour and halberds glinting in the sun, their ornate cloaks trailing behind them like wings spread wide. I looked down at the object in my hand. At first I did not understand. It was a bell, a small bell. I held it up between thumb and forefinger and rattled it. The bell tinkled and its bright peals then reminded me – it belonged to Qamar the falcon; the bird’s presence was always preceded by that sound, from the bell worn around its neck. Puzzled, I looked up. Anak and his two guards were no longer to be seen. Instead, circling above the line of Repha’im, were three falcons. I watched them wheel in the pale blue sky, diving and swooping for joy.

CHAPTER 68

We stayed at the Templar monastery of St John for a number of weeks. In that time pitch from the fire pits was used to burn the bodies of the dead, and our Petrovingian captives were tasked with sealing the pit of Dudael once more, covering its entrance with boulders.

Khaled also left us, somewhat unexpectedly but albeit temporarily. He took a horse one morning, claiming he would return within the week. True to his word he was back some days later. But something had changed. He seemed withdrawn. He no longer socialised with the group and spent much of the time alone, to the point where I rarely saw or spoke to him any longer.

We had laid out Melchisedek Tob’s body in the monastery’s chapel and sent word to Rabbi Ahimasach ben Gad of his friend’s terrible fate. One afternoon the rabbi aed outside the monastery’s gates, to return the body for a proper burial at a Jewish cemetery in Jerusalem. He stayed overnight, and in the empty refectory, over a simple meal, we discussed the events of the past few days.

‘So the desert demon is still at large in the world?’ muttered ben Gad, smoothing his beard.

I nodded. ‘Wounded, but free. I still have the Shalat and I will make hunting Azazel my sole endeavour.’

‘Good. There is no knowing what he may do now he is free to roam the Earth at will. But we must thank God that he is not bound to the will of the Patriarch. If that were so, all would truly be lost.’

Ben Gad chewed contemplatively on a hunk of bread. ‘You say the Rabbi Tob was murdered by the Anchorite known as Benito? What of him? Have you seen him since?’

‘No. Benito was cursed – a pawn of the Patriarch. What he did was against his own will, of that I am sure. Benito is not an evil man, but his mind is damaged, and he is vulnerable to the influence of evil forces. His whole life is a tragedy.’

‘If what you say is true, then I bear him no ill will. But if the Patriarch remains alive then Benito is still dangerous – a weapon to be used again by the sorcerer-king to extend his reach.’

‘Yes. But Benito knows this. All he wanted was a life of quiet prayer, where he could withdraw from the world and no longer be a threat. It was I who dragged him into all this. But I do not underestimate the Patriarch’s power – he could well have shaped our fates by presenting my encounter with Benito as chance, when if fact it was a deliberate ploy.’

‘We are all pawns of the greater powers. Who knows how far the Patriarch’s influence truly extended? But remember – you find yourself here now by virtue of a web of fate that was not solely shaped by the Patriarch. The Repha’im, your father, they were all complicit, were they not?’

I considered ben Gad’s words. What he said was true – I had been buffeted this way and that by the will of others. The story began when I first received the Shalat as a young man. But I had sealed my fate when I murdered Raynaud and the Nizari in Acre – and that was entirely my own doing. I shrugged. ‘Who truly controls their own fate? Our fortunes lie in the hands of God, and the Fates. But the sacrifices we make leave a mark on the world. And we have all of us lost something. Some, like the Rabbi Tob, have forfeited their very lives in this great game.’

Ben Gad nodded. ‘It was his time. He was prepared for death. And I suspect he knew his fate. His one remaining task was to reconcile himself to the sphere of Malkhut – this physical realm of manifestation. Out of necessity, as part of your quest, he touched the earth once more, thereby completing the circle and contributing to the healing of this sphere. There has always been a rift in Malkhut, but the fell practices of the Patriarch and others have only damaged it further. Rabbi Tob’s actions – your actions, and those of your colleagues – have helped to heal that rift. You can do no more.’

The next day Rabbi ben Gad left the monastery with Tob’s body. He sat in a small cart, pulled by an old mule. ‘Goodbye my son.’ He smiled warmly. ‘May His Shekhinah protect you.’

I contemplated the bodies of the fallen – Arba and now Tob, taken by those closest to them to a place of safety and rest – a final sanctuary. And I wondered who would attend to my cold and lifeless husk when the time came, and where my final resting place might be. I felt a terrible emptiness, for I recalled the dying words of the Petrovingian warlord, and knew that, for me, no sanctuary existed.

****

I had begun to consider what the future might hold for us all. Now that our wounds were healing well, and we were approaching full strength, I asked myself: what should I do next? Where should I go? In the days that followed, those questions were answered. Since the Petrovingian sorcerer-king had departed, the remaining knights of Dudael had pledged their loyalty to my father and me. The scales of deception had fallen from their eyes, and they indicated to us they could be trusted again. I began sending them out in small detachments to reconnoitre the surrounding countryside for signs of enemy resistance – whether Petrovingian or Mameluk. One afternoon two Dudael knights returned with a mounted Templar. They had intercepted him whilst scouting the area to the west of the Red Sea. He was weary and caked with dust, and had been riding for days. We sat him in the cloister, beneath a grove of lemon trees. Khaled, my father and a handful of Dudael knights were present. We provided food and water and, after he had devoured both, he explained himself.

‘My name is Roger de Villiers. I was dispatched from the Templar Commandry at Acre one week ago to ride south in all haste, seeking aid from any last remaining Templar strongholds, or from friends of the Templars. Or any Christian – anyone! The Mameluk sultan Al-Ashraf has laid siege to Acre with two hundred thousand men. Within the city we have at most a force one-tenth that size. We need more men, otherwise Acre will surely fall. Your scouts hailed me and brought me to you.’

I had not seen the red cross of the Templars emblazed on a surcoat for what felt an age. Witnessing it on the chest of this dishevelled knight stirred something in me. I thought I had no appetite for war, but the prospect of an uncomplicated battle – mortal man versus mortal man – seized me.

The knight’s thin, bearded face looked at us all in turn. ‘You must help us’ he implored. ‘You have many men here – we can put them to good use in the defence of Acre. Without more troops Christ’s last stronghold in Outremer will be crushed and the heathen dogs will drive us into the sea.’

Khaled coughed and I smiled briefly. ‘Not all heathen are dogs, brother’ I observed.

I looked about the cloister and posed a question to those gathered: 'Well my friends, what say you? Do we return to Acre and do battle again, this time against a more earth-bound enemy? Or do we stay here? Or perhaps disperse, go our separate ways? Seek new adventures in other lands?’

Khaled spoke first: ‘I for one cannot join your army and go to war against al-Ashraf. I have other… matters to attend to.’

My father spoke xt, his eyes glinting with something approaching pride. ‘I have a great desire to absolve myself of many sins, on behalf of both God and the Order. This may be my only opportunity to do so. Besides, I wish to see the beautiful city of Acre once again before I die.’

The Dudael knights also murmured their assent.

I nodded. ‘Then it is decided. We leave for Acre at dawn tomorrow.’

CHAPTER 69

We packed quickly with a view to travelling light. The Templar de Villiers stayed with us. I took him from the monastery to the valley where the Cave of Dudael lay, now once again hidden; the place was still a scene of devastation, albeit now a charred wasteland since flames from the fire pits had cleansed the battlefield. What remained of scorched bones were piled up and in the process of being buried by Petrovingian captives; I had agreed with Khaled and my father that all trace of the last few days should be erased, at least as much as possible. ‘Holy Mother of God’ exclaimed de Villiers as he took it all in, barely believing his eyes. ‘What has happened here?’

‘A battle’ I replied flatly. ‘Against an enemy more fearsome than your Turks. Count yourself lucky you were not here to witness it. Ask no more of me, or the others, for you will get no answers.’

I left him to continue staring in horrid fascination, and seized a couple of half-decent horses from the rag-tag collection that were stabled nearby.

The remainder of the day was busily spent. By nightfall, after a meal where we all sat silently, absorbed in our own thoughts, every man retired to a private part of the monastery to reflect on what has occurred and what may yet come to pass. The raw, sharp pain from my many wounds had now become a constant, collective ache and I knew I would not sleep. Besides, at that moment I felt strangely hollow, so I took a torch and a skin of wine out into the desert and sat under the God’s firmament. I did not think, or pray, or contemplate anything for some time. But I slowly realised how like a coiled spring I was – my nerves were so raw I could not stop my hands from shaking. I smoked a few pipes of hashish to calm my fevered spirit but instead I began sobbing, to the point where I wondered if I would ever stop. After a storm of snot and tears, I finally grew becalmed; I was spent. The moonless sky above me was thick with stars – bands of them that snaked across the blackness like rivers. I listened: a coyote, crickets, the whistle of bats. Footsteps? The regular crunch of rubble underfoot made me start. I reached for the Shalat but heard a voice say: ‘stay your hand. It is only me Christian.’ Khaled.

‘How did you know I was here?’ I asked, sniffing.

‘I did not know. I came out here for some peace. And so did you. Perhaps we both wish to be alone? I can sit in another part of the desert if you prefer?’

‘No. No. I am happy for you to sit with me. I’d be grateful of your company.’

Khaled nodded his assent and sat beside me. I filled another pipe with hashish and lit a taper from the torch. The smoke tumbled into my organs and filled them with a comforting torpor. t>

Khaled observed me. ‘You are not offering me any of your substances?’

I exhaled noisily. ‘Why would I? You always refuse them.’

‘On this occasion, perhaps I would not.’

My eyebrows must have rose to meet my hair. ‘Truly? Well then, if you are sure, I will prepare you a pipe.’ I knocked the ash from the pipe bowl and stuffed it with fresh hashish, then handed it to him. He took the taper and inhaled, exhaled, returned it with a nod of thanks.

We said nothing for some time. Then Khaled spoke. ‘We have witnessed things few men have ever seen, or should ever have to see.’

I nodded slowly. ‘I think I was at the very edge of madness. I wonder now how we scraped through alive and with our minds intact. My father used to say: ‘keep your head down and don’t look up until the job is done.’ I think that is what I did – it is the reason I survived.’

‘I offered prayers to Allah unceasingly. By His will alone am I here now.’

‘You will not come with us to Acre?’

‘No. No I will not. While I have no loyalty to al-Ashraf and his Mameluk horde, your war is not my war. Remember that my sect has been in the employ of the Repha’im. And now that the tasks set me by the Mahdi Tarus bi-Ahkam-Allah are complete, I will return to my fellow Nizari and await the next challenge.’

I grunted an acknowledgement but felt a profound emptiness. The world did not normally allow for Christian and Muslim to forge strong bonds. But we had been thrown together by strange forces and, against my better judgement, I had learned to respect him, more so than my own Templar brethren. We had endured much together; we had saved each other’s life. And I admired him because he was all the things I was not. I wondered at that moment how he regarded me, if he placed any stock at all in our friendship.

I took a swig of wine and observed Khaled out the corner of my eye. His gaze was fixed on the horizon, his expression unreadable. I decided to give voice to my thoughts.

‘It is strange how time and experience can alter a man’s mind. When first we met I thought you haughty and superior – like a typical Arab lord and gentleman. And worst of all you were a heathen gentleman.’

Khaled chuckled. ‘And I thought you an oaf – loutish and violent. And worst of all, a Christian oaf.’

‘There were many times I wanted to run you through.’

‘And many times I could have done the same – whilst you were flat on your back from wine and hashish.’

‘Perhaps you still will’ I murmured, regretting the words as soon as they had escaped my lips. But they echoed a doubt I had borne from the outset – that Khaled would still do me harm given the chance, that any motive would be buried until the time came for him to slit my throat. Perhaps it was the result of an ingrained prejudice towards all hereticsrhaps it was due to his profession – the hashishin’s duplicity was legendary. I glanced at Khaled again. He looked strangely uncomfortable, as though I had touched upon a truth. But he said nothing.

I sought to clear the air: ‘I hope we can put aside the things that make us different and look to the things that unite us. For my part, I believe we now share a bond – of knowledge and secrecy. There are few who could ever know, or believe – let alone understand - the things that have befallen us. In the years to come I will reflect often on all this. And it would please me if we could share a pipe of hashish again one day and try to make sense of it all.’

Khaled looked at the floor. ‘You are being sentimental my friend.’

‘No. I am not. When I am old I will tell my brood of the great Muslim hero Khaled, and how he and I saved the world together!’ I spread my arms wide and laughed, but Khaled barely smiled. He stood up and brushed the dust from his pantaloons. ‘Come. It is late. Let us return to the monastery.’

I looked at him in dismay. I had saved his life, protected him from the Ifrit Kabikaj, and yet he appeared to place little value on our bond.

‘At least let us toast our luck’ I said, grabbing his shoulder. ‘Let us celebrate our good fortune and pray for a long and uneventful life!’ I swigged from the wineskin and handed it to him. He did not take it.

‘You know I cannot drink your wine.’ He smiled thinly. ‘But if I could then yes, I would drink to that.’

He walked off into the night, leaving me swaying where I stood and wondering if I had ever really known this man called Khaled.

CHAPTER 70

Early next morning we gathered at the monastery’s gates, on horseback. There were close to a hundred of us. Those Petrovingians that remained – no more than two hundred – had their hands bound and were set loose in the desert.

Khaled led his horse and mule to the assembled throng. He still looked subdued; his slim face turned downwards, his eyes fixed to the floor. I dismounted to greet him, refusing to accept that he was departing.

‘So. What you said last night was no idle threat. You truly intend to leave us now.’

He nodded. ‘Yes, I do. I cannot tell you why I must go. But trust me, it is for the best.’

I shrugged. ‘Very well. If you wish to speak in riddles… I am grateful for all your help in our struggles. Perhaps we will meet again. One day.’

Khaled nodded. ‘I pray that Allah protects you and bestows his mercy upon you.’ He held out his hand and I clasped it. His brown eyes flicked up and bored into mine, and I saw an almost pained look in those eyes, as though I had done him wrong and he awaited an apology. Or a confession.

‘God be with you my friend’ I replied, staring back nonplussed.

Without another word he swung his thin black-clad frame into the saddle. His horse galloped in the direction of the Dead Sea, the mule trotting in its wake.

I sighed and put those unresolved thoughts about Khaled out of my head. He was gone now, and I had more pressing matters to attend to.

****

It took a week to travel to Acre, first following the line of the river Jordan north and then bearing west when we approached Lake Tiberius. Our small regiment carried an air of firm resolve – we had all fallen from grace to some extent, and now sought redemption in bloody deeds against the Muslim. The Knights of Dudael had shunned the Templar’s fold to pursue my father’s heresy, had grown disillusioned and ultimately become seduced by the Patriarch’s evil. My father’s pride led them astray and in so doing had deprived Acre of its best fighting men. Worst of all, in his naivety father had awoken the attentions of the dark prince of Petrov, brought his troops from the heathen north into Outremer and unwittingly conspired to help fulfil the Patriarch’s fell plan. My own sins were numerous – not least failing in my sole objective to annihilate the desert demon Azazel.

I rode with my father at the vanguard. We spoke little, comfortable in each other’s company like any father and son. It pleased me to be with him, despite everything he had done; despite the fact that my fate had been set years ago, as a result of his foolish actions. All I had endured in the past weeks – the slaughter, the terror, the pain – all of it was a direct consequence of the choices he had made; I had been drawn into the maelstrom through a bond of blood, just as Arba’s fate had been sealed by his blood-ties with Azazel. And yet, despite all this, I did not bear my father any ill will. I found it easy to forgive him. Maybe it was because I knew him to be a flawed man – as flawed as his own son; he could never live up to my image of him as an immaculate, faultless knight. And perhaps it heartened me to know that he too was riddled with weakness, and as a result we had more in common than I had previously guessed; ironically, the tribulations inflicted on us had brought us together.

Rocking gently in our saddles, side by side, I felt an odd optimism. Acre was about to fall to the largest heathen army ever assembled, and as we drew closer to it our doom became irrevocably sealed. Yet there was a lightness in my heart. Life seemed simpler now.

Even my father appeared less burdened, less troubled than when I was first reunited with him. Some of his old vigour had returned; he sat proud, not stooped, in the saddle. I could tell that he, like me, yearned to see Acre again and relished the opportunity to defend the city, side by side with his son and his Templar brethren.

He cast me a quick glance. ‘Have your wounds healed Alaric?’

‘Yes father.’

‘And is your sword arm strong?’

‘Yes father.’

‘Good lad.’

I smiled to myself. I was just like the old days.

Along the route there was little in the way of activity; a number of sailboats passed us as we trotted along the river bank; a few low-born souls still half-heartedly worked the fields, probably unsure whether their lord and master was now alive or dead, Christian or Muslim. They observed us from a distance in silence, like phantoms in the landscape. On one occasion a detachment of Mameluk light cavalry passed along a ridge above us and we hurriedly dismounted, hiding amongst the dense undergrowth. Thereafter we rode in single file or in small groups, depending on the level of threat. The land sloped away from us as we approached the glistening expanse of blue that was Lake Tiberius. Boats dotted the still waters and, as we grew nearer, it became apparent that the villages nestling at the water’s edge were still inhabited. We left our horses to drink their fill from the lake and spoke to a number of locals, to purchase wine and food. Some looked at us as though we were lepers, barely daring to come near. One bold fisherman called out: ‘what are you doing here? Have you not seen the army that lays siege to Acre?’

I called back. ‘I have not seen it. But we go there now.’

‘To fight, or to surrender?’

‘We go to fight.’

‘Then you will surely die. I have seen the army and it is bigger than the sea. It is a sea of men and swords.’

I turned away, uninterested in such talk.

The man called out again. ‘The road to Acre is busy with Turks bringing water and supplies. You would do well to steer clear of it.’

I nodded my thanks. We took the peasant’s advice and skirted the main Acre road, which ran north-west, and instead travelled due west, passing close by the town of Cana Galilee. When we reached Shefa Amr the regiment turned north, following the line of the coast. As the sun began to set on our last day before reaching our destination we sought a camp for the night. My father spied a small castle nestling amongst some low hills and we headed towards it. I did not recognise the place at first but, as we drew closer and I saw its squat towers silhouetted against the sun, I knew it to be the castle of Doc – where I had travelled with the Templar knights Awad Pelac and Durand De Ros, and seen them both cut down by Petrovingian Volkhy within its walls.

‘I was here not three months ago’ I said to my father, ‘delivering provisions to the garrison. All of my party were ambushed and killed by the Petrovingians – including Durand the Seneschal. I was the only survivor. I did not know then, but they were hunting the Shalat. We’ll find no welcome here – it will be peopled by heathen or scavengers.’

‘Then we will approach with care.’

Our small army divided into two and circled the castle perimeter from either side. Approaching the front of the structure it became clear that the place was deserted; the heavy oak doors were hanging from their hinges and the Templar’s piebald standard fluttered in tatters. A number of us dismounted and carefully stepped through the castle’s arched entrance, fanning out once within the courtyard. The place was as I remembered it, albeit more ruined. A section of wall and part of a towerllapsed, along with the wooden stables; straw and ordure, along with the remnants of various animal enclosures, scattered the ground. I walked to the shallow grave where I had buried my brethren. Sure enough, save for a few clumps of hair, their bodies had been picked clean; scraps of clothing now clung to their weathered bones like dried skin; I guessed vultures had taken their flesh, and thieves their weapons, boots and belts. Against my better judgement I approached the castle’s ramshackle chapel and pulled the door ajar with a creak. Inside the heads of the Templar brethren still sat on the altar where I had left them, now turned to greying skulls. In the gloom I remembered my revulsion at seeing them fresh, their blood warm. Now the same blood was black and dried, like old pitch. A few dead maggots lay scattered about like crumbs. ‘Ab actu ad posse valet illatio – we will surely all die’ I muttered.

A gang from our party re-buried the bones in a new grave and we stood around it in silent prayer. Then we made camp, lit a couple of fires and sat amongst the ghosts of our dead comrades. I reflected on my memories of Durand, and particularly of Kaspar. It was strange to think that, although they lived on in my mind, their lives had ended here months ago. Now at least their martyred souls were united with God and His saints. I looked up at the stars and asked for their blessing.

‘Kaspar. I named my horse after you’ I muttered to no-one in particular. ‘I am sorry you died so young. And I am sorry I was so harsh with you. I will avenge your death tomorrow when we ride to Acre. And not long after that I will see you again no doubt.’

‘Do not hasten Death’s arrival’ replied my father, who sat nearby. ‘Your time will come, but it is not for you to know when.’

‘Death has stood at my shoulder many times. I am no longer afraid of the wench.’

‘Nor should you be. I too have seen the old crone on the horizon, or amongst the dead of the battlefield, or standing in the corner of my cell in the night.’

Father looked about him. ‘But less of this morbid banter. The men are in good spirits. See – they laugh and joke. Here – take a draught of this wine.’

It was true. The men were full of bravado. The Patriarch’s suffocating grip on them was no more and now they relished the clean air and their free spirits.

I grinned. ‘We are twenty miles from the battle to decide all our fates – every Christian in the Latin East. And yet here we are, merry-making like farmers at Michaelmas.’

My father swigged from his wineskin and laughed. ‘It sits well with me. Let us be jocund – for only the Lord knows what tomorrow may bring!’

CHAPTER 71

We caroused into the night. Most men were now asleep beside the fires but a few of us remained awake. I was engaged in a particularly testing game of chess with the Templar Roger de Villiers. Taking a gulp of wine I considered my move, listening to the crack of the fires and the occasional peal of laughter. It was a peaceful moment – one to relish.

My opponent played his move, then leaned over to me and asked quietly, ‘may I see your sword, Brother Alaric? I have heard much of its Easter miracle; the Templar brethren still talk about it. Many will be delighted that you are returning the heathen-bane to Acre.’

I smiled and removed the blade from its scabbard, then handed it to de Villiers. My sword had indeed acquired a reputation over the years amongst the military orders. One specific event that occurred annually hinted at its supernatural origins, although no Templar knew of its real purpose, and none knew that it was called the Shalat, or was one of three holy swords of power.

De Villiers gasped as he studied the weapon. ‘It is the finest blade I have ever seen. The army of Islam will tremble when they learn it is amongst Acre’s arsenal.’

‘It will take more than one sword to weaken the heart of al-Ashraf’ I replied.

The Templar handed the weapon back to me. ‘But it will fortify the heart of every Christian defender. Tell me of the Easter miracle, if you will.’

I had told the story many times before, but did not object to its retelling once more.

The Easter after my investiture as a knight, there was much activity about Hugh de Constantino’s estate on Cyprus. I had just turned seventeen, and the Shalat had been in my possession no more than a few months. Hugh’s knighted vassals and I were attending mass early that morning when my squire, Nicolas Ochrida, burst in through the chapel doors.

‘My lords’ he gasped, sweating, ‘come quick. I have witnessed a miracle.’ We all looked about us. I shrugged and smiled an apology at the parson, Brother Guillaume, but Nicolas was insistent. We followed him round to the outhouses where the squires were quartered and the knight’s horses were stabled. I grabbed Nicolas’s arm as we approached his billet.

‘What is this folly Nicolas?’ I whispered with some vehemence. ‘Did your brain seep out of your ears overnight?’

‘No sir, this has nothing to do with me. I don’t know what to make of it. It can only be a miracle. The parson will know for sure.’

‘Well what have you seen? I could have you flogged for this.’

Nicolas ushered us all into his tiny quarters. The interior was dull and smelled of steel and wax. ‘There’ he ventured, ‘in the corner.’

Following his gaze as he pointed, I moved slowly in its direction. All I could see in the grimy light was a collection of saddlebags, and my sword, lying on his workman’s bench.

‘The sword?’ I asked, looking at him. He nodded.

Approaching, I picked up a lit tallow candle, crouched and held it above the weapon. I ran the flame along the length of the mottled blade and suddenly gasped. From the pommel end, small pearls of blood were slowly forming and gouting from the steel.

‘Holy mother of God’ I hissed. ‘It’s bleeding.he sword is bleeding.’

Hugh approached carefully, eyes wide. The blood continued to slowly well up and cascade leisurely down the steel, after which it gently tapped onto the leather rag beneath.

‘This – this cannot be’ he gasped. ‘Is it devilry, or is it… truly the hand of God at work?’ He turned and beckoned for the parson, Brother Guillaume, to approach.

‘Look’ whispered Hugh, stroking his beard in amazement. ‘See how the liquid rises from the metal, like sap from a tree.’

‘The stigmata’ said Brother Guillaume, his voice less resonant than usual. ‘The sword is displaying the passion of Christ. I have heard of pious Christians showing wounds that correspond with Christ’s own. And I have read tales of statues of the Virgin that weep tears. But a weapon? This is strange and miraculous indeed. What is the history of the sword?’

Hugh stood upright. He cast me a quick glance and spoke slowly. ‘I do not know Brother. The sword… must be a gift. It was found on Alaric’s mat the morning of his investiture. We think maybe some well-wisher placed it there, or... The truth is, we do not know. It is a mystery.’

‘Extraordinary’ muttered the parson, still studying the blade. ‘Strange though the phenomenon is, it has occurred on the day of Christ’s passion. Also, a devout and goodly Christian knight owns the sword. I sense no ill will here. This is not the work of Lucifer. Rather, it is a sign from God on the day his blessed son bore upon his broken frame the sins of mankind.’

We carried the sword into the house where it continued to bleed for another three days. As he was about to leave, the parson turned and smiled at me. ‘God’s benison is upon you my boy. Wherever the weapon comes from, you have been touched by God’s grace. I feel a noble and long career as a Knight of Christ awaits you in the Holy Land, as does a martyr’s crown in Heaven.’

Thereafter the household held me in high esteem. During the occasional jousting tournaments held on Hugh’s estate, attendant knights would seek me out and humbly request that they might view the holy artefact. I even found favour with Alla Magdalena – Hugh’s youngest daughter, whose coquettish smiles and acknowledgements made my heart burn with a violent ardour. But as I strutted here and there like Chaunticleer the proud young cockerel, the sin of pride fermented within me. I began to muse on the sword’s aspect and became obsessed with one question above all others: why me? Why had the weapon fallen into my possession? Was it pure happenstance, fate or divine will? I did not know, but I swiftly grew to believe that I had been chosen by God, had been selected by him to perform some specific, divinely ordained function. And others, I knew, felt the same. Gossip amongst the estate debated my possible destiny – was my fate to vanquish the heathen? Maybe to conquer Cairo or return Jerusalem to Christian rule? I heard all the rumours and loved them heartily. They stoked the fires of my own overarching ambition as I lay amongst the orange groves, a blade of grass between my teeth, grinning the conceited smile of a daydreamer absorbed in his own unlikely fantasies.

De Villiers nodded at my tale. I looked up from my reverie and realised my father had also been listening.

‘As a youngster, you were indeed a pompous little brat’ he said, smiling.

‘I was. I do not deny it. The sword’s reputation made me an idiot. But back then I was just a boy. Had I known then what I know now, I would have cast the Shalat into the sea and prayed never to see it again.’

De Villiers frowned in confusion at my comment. For him, as with all the other Templars, the weapon was simply a sign from God that the armies of Christ would one day triumph over the Turk. After I had arrived in Acre and taken my Templar oaths, the sword’s fame spread like bush fire. Every Easter, brothers came to my cell and queued to catch drops of blood in little vials; some even claimed the stuff had healing properties.

I had just finished my tale when father, de Villiers and the other knights turned away from the campfires, alerted by a sudden noise. In the distance, from the direction of Acre, came a low rumble. It was the sound of a thousand drums and two hundred thousand men roaring their bloodlust. The wind carried their cries to our ears like an invisible messenger. All our good spirits died at that moment, for those sounds told us that the Mameluk army was awake and hungry for war.

CHAPTER 72

At daybreak we broke camp and proceeded north in single file, a dozen outriders ahead of us to scout for Mameluk cavalry. A few hours later the horsemen returned, looking pale and fearful.

‘We have seen the Saracen army’ said one knight, drawing alongside my horse. ‘It is a mighty force. Men as far as the eye can see. And Acre is in a sorry state – smoke pours from the city; some towers have collapsed.’

He guided us towards a group of low hills upon which olive groves nestled. They were near enough for us to view the battlefield whilst affording some reasonable cover. I dismounted and stood at the edge of the line of gnarled trees. From our elevated position, in the crisp morning light, I surveyed the panorama. The scouts had not lied; my eyes did not lie, but still I could not believe what I saw. An ocean of men swept from one edge of the mainland to the other, blocking all access to the city. My knees began to quiver and I sunk to the ground, heart pounding. Never had I seen such a display of martial power: roughly one hundred mangonels, ranks of ballista, and a variety of giant trebuchets – more massive than any I had previously seen. The army was a rippling, glistening patchwork of colour: thousands of banners of every conceivable hue, hundreds of thousands of tents, and atop a small hill the red dihliz of the sultan al-Ashraf Khalil himself. No wonder Acre was suffering. Who could withstand a force such as this? Acre’s normally impregnable defences would be turned to rubble by just half the siege engines assembled here. And indeed that process had begun. It looked as though the Tower of the English and the Tower of the Countess of Blois had collapsed, along with a section of outer wall. This was well known as the weakest section of the city’s perimeter and no doubt the majority of the defenders had massed there. Many columns of smoke rose from within, coiling high into the blue sky. Only Greek fire could have caused this much damage; the jars, containing an incendiary mixture that exploded on impact, would have been hurled over Acre’s walls by heathen catapults.

‘By the holy Queen of Peace and all the saints’ I murmured. ‘It must be chaos within the city.’

Many of the knights in our entourage had dismounted and come forward to view the scene, and a ripple of dismay spread amongst them. What difference could one hundred men make against such an army? Despair gnawed at us. Was there any point proceeding further? Should we not simply look for a ship to take us to Cyprus, and to safety?

My father called us all back into the groves and, under the dappled shadows of the low trees, gave voice to his thoughts. ‘Honourable knights and men. We cannot win this war for Acre. The army arrayed before us is invincible. Whatever the reason, we must accept that God’s mercy and protection has deserted us. It is His will that the city should be taken by the infidel. Perhaps it is because of our actions – mine and yours – that He seeks to punish us now. So then, it is our duty to do penance and make amends, such as we can. I for one will find a route into Acre and stand side by side with my own folk – if the city and the Order will have us. I say we swear an oath here and now to return to our mother-city and defend her honour to the last man. That dog al-Ashraf will not violate Acre while we still draw breath.’

The men, though sombre, agreed unanimously with ‘ayes’ and cries of ‘beauseant’.

Roger de Villiers spoke then. ‘Sire, how do you propose we gain access to the city? The heathen blocks all landward routes. To reach Acre’s walls we would need to first pass through a wall of Saracens.’

‘Then that is what we shall do. We shall ride through the Turkish lines and cut ourselves a bloody avenue into Acre!’

Some of the men laughed and scoffed, but most cheered its audacity. I thought it foolish beyond belief, but my heart still pounded and an irresistible grin spread across my face.

Father drew a rough map in the sand with the tip of a branch. ‘Normally I would suggest we circumvent the Turk by riding to the coast, along the beach and then turning back inland to follow the line of the city’s walls. But that dog al-Ashraf is camped close to the beach and this is where the army’s elite will be concentrated – the sultan’s bodyguard alone is over three thousand of the best men from the renowned Burdiyya Regiment. To adopt this line would be suicide. Instead we shall approach from the north, creating a breach in the armies of Damascus and Egypt here, directly in front of the collapsed walls by the Gate of St Anthony. This will be our route into the city – through the gap where Acre’s walls have already fallen.’

The men murmured agreement at the plan and readied themselves. In moments we were mounted and trotting out of the trees to form a single rank. Every man was heavily armoured – eyes glinting through their visored bascinets, the pale blue surcoats of the Knights of Dudael still worn over their mail hauberks. Iron fists grasped swords, lances and shields. I wore a plain black, unmarked surcoat and helmet. The Shalat was unsheathed but devoid of any supernatural animation – it was now nothing more than a fine weapon.

With father leading us, our regiment turned and advanced in single file. Our trot increased to a gallop, then a thunderous charge as we spurred the horses on. The sf my sharp breathing was drowned out by the drumming of hooves; dust billowed before me and I tasted the dust of Outremer. In moments we were bearing down on the Mameluk army. I could see the line of knights snaking ahead of me, making for a clear gap in the heathen forces where one amir’s army ended and another began. I surveyed the fast-approaching encampment but no-one appeared to have noticed us – all eyes were focussed on the city before them. Our thundering line of cavalry bore left and swung into the enemy camp along a rough track between two massed banks of tents. One Saracen stepped out onto the path, not even noticing our approach. In a heartbeat he was hacked down and trampled under foot. His screams rang out and the entire heathen army seemed to come alive as one, like a rousing giant. Heathen chatter – cries and commands – sped past. Arrows flicked by. A horse in front tumbled, hooves caught in the mesh of tent ropes lining our route. In a cloud of dust both rider and mount crumpled and rolled, and were set upon by a horde of Mameluks. Another knight went down, then another; too many of our men were becoming ensnared. To fall here in the enemy camp meant a certain death – bludgeoned by the heathen horde.

‘Keep to the middle’ I yelled. ‘Stay away from the ropes!’

I doubt anyone heard me above the general din. More horses were caught, like flies in a web; a knight directly in front of me went down and I leaped his writhing, kicking mount not a moment too soon – otherwise I too would have been felled. Those of us still standing rumbled onwards, swerving left and right to avoid our fallen comrades. Javelins and arrows criss-crossed our path. Some Mameluk foot soldiers – probably Bedouin slaves – were thrust onto the trackway to block our advance. I leaned out and hacked down at dirty turbaned heads with the Shalat; skulls were splintered, gore sprayed my horse’s flanks. The mass of tents either side of us thinned out and our route opened up; we were approaching the clear ground between the Saracen camp and Acre. It was every man for himself. Those of us that had run the gauntlet and survived now urged our mounts on, pressing them forward. Our horses, foaming and flecked, bore us towards the city with every fibre of their being. I looked back and saw lines of archers fire volleys into the sky; moments later the arrows hissed over my head, peppering the ground all around; some of my kinsmen received bolts in their backs and rolled off their saddles into the dirt. I could see figures manning the walls of Acre. A few of the defenders clambered over the rubble and gestured wildly to us. Suddenly a huge stone slab fell out of the sky and landed to my left, utterly crushing a knight and his mount. ‘By the Virgin, they’re using the trebuchets against us’ I muttered. More chunks of masonry rained down, as though the tower of Heaven itself were collapsing.

Now I could hear the cheers, the cries of encouragement echoing from Acre’s defences. We replied with shouts of ‘beauseant! Beausant!’ The city’s walls loomed before us, repelling the arrows and rubble sent to destroy us. In moments we had gained the section of collapsed wall and dismounted, stumbling over the mess of masonry and dragging our horses into cover. We swarmed through the gap and were safe – hidden behind the damaged curtain wall. Arms and hands led us through St Anthony’s gate into the inner bailey. A large crowd has assembled to greet us. I removed my helm as someone handed me a water skin, and I gulped its contents down into my parched throat. I looked about for my father and saw him nearby, wiping the sweat from his glistening face. A quick count of heads suggested that close to sixty of our hundred or so knights had survived the charge through al-Ashraf’s camp. Sisters from Nunnery of St Anne tended to the wounded whilst the rest of Acre’s denizens – men at arms and citizens alike, pressed forward, grinning and gabbling questions.

CHAPTER 73

A bellow of authority swiftly silenced the rabble. The crowd parted and a face I recognised emerged. It was Guillaume de Beaujeu, the Grand Master of the Knights of the Order of the Temple, flanked by Templar guards. Grey eyes alive with intelligence shone from above his sunken, bearded cheeks. The sight of him, and the red cross emblazed on his white surcoat, stirred something in me. He said nothing at first, those eyes passing from my father to me, and to each of the Knights of Dudael assembled there.

‘So. You have come to save us, those of you who abandoned the Rule – and the Cross – in preference for devilish company.’ His voice was clear and strong, and tinged with disdain. ‘Would that I could cast you back out of the city and offer you up to the mercy of the Mameluk army. For that is what you all deserve. But in this time of crisis, to do such a thing would be witless. Our crisis reaches far beyond the Temple’s own concerns. We fight for the very lifeblood of Christendom in these lands. Therefore every extra soul is a gift. Sixty extra souls is a blessing. Ensure these men are fed and watered.’

With that he turned and left. The citizens of the city brought wine, bread and fruit, which we devoured. We sat and discussed matters with them briefly. They recounted a patchwork of stories about the last few weeks, but it became clear that al-Ashraf’s army had reached Acre in early April and, shortly after, begun bombarding the city with mangonels, trebuchets, arrows and Greek fire. Hundreds had died from those volleys; the hospitals became clogged with wounded. Rats and disease prowled the streets. Further, Saracen engineers had mined the weakest section of the city walls; the point at which we had entered the city, where wall and tower once stood, was the result of their efforts. Everyone expected more of Acre’s defences to fall soon. A Venetian, as always proud of his nation’s fleet, commented that the Franks still controlled the seas; the city was being resupplied with provisions almost daily, and one enterprising Christian had secured a catapult to the deck of his ship, which then pummelled the Mameluk forces from Acre’s harbour. At least until it was sunk by a well-aimed shot from the heathen’s battery of mangonels. A sturdy-looking carpenter armed with an axe told us how forty ships had arrived from Cyprus some weeks back, bearing men and supplies. ‘But even that wasn’t enough’ he added glumly. ‘Only something like two thousand foot soldiers. Not nearly enough. We need one hundred times that number.’

‘What we need is a miracle’ chipped in a fat bald man sitting nearby, sharpening arrowheads. ‘No chance of that though. The Good Lord, he don’t love us no more. And rightly so. This city’s drowning in its own filth. Punishment, that’s what this is.’

I stood up, sick of such talk. ‘Who commands you?’ I asked. ‘Who is in charge?’ But no-one answered – the rabble were more interested in discussing their own demise. I grabbed a passing group of Hospitallers. ‘Gentle Brothers, tell me – who is in command here? Do the Grand Masters govern our defences, or is there another?’

A broad, blond-haired Hospitaller, younger than me, stopped and nodded a greeting. ‘Noble sir,are you one of the company recently arrived – from beyond the Sultan’s camp?’

‘I am. Word travels fast.’

The Hospitaller laughed and clapped his hands in delight. ‘By God – I watched you from the walls here. Such wanton bravery I have never before seen!’ He slapped me on the shoulder. ‘You are an inspiration. Our spirits were at low ebb, but seeing your audacious charge has buoyed us all. We are lucky to have your sort amongst us. Come, I will take you to the Prince.’

The fellow left his companions and led us through the milling crowd, past bands of fearful citizens clinging to all manner of salvaged weapons, past groups of mail-clad brethren deep in concerned chatter, past rows of miserable wounded, their skin either pallid, charred or bloodied.

‘My name is Borin Tolle’ said the Hospitaller over his shoulder. ‘Where have you travelled from?’

I shrugged. ‘From the south.’

‘I do not recognise the insignia of your Order. Are you perhaps the Wendish JägerBrudern I have heard others speak of?’

‘We are… a young order. Dedicated to justice and the liberation of the Holy Lands from all pagans.’

This seemed to satisfy the knight. We were approaching the solid mass of stone that constituted Acre’s donjon, which sat on the line of the inner wall, and divided the old town from Montmusart – the new district to the north. The place was a seething mass of arms and armour – cavalry and men at arms streamed en masse past us, no doubt to shore up the defences around the Gate of St Anthony. A group of figures emerged from the castle’s great arched entrance; two men set the pace, walking at speed and gesturing wildly at each other. A large entourage suggested these were figures of some importance. They stopped in the middle of the open precinct before the castle; even as we approached I could hear the argument that raged:

‘In God’s name Henry, why must you leave the city now?’

‘Do not question me brother. You’ve not exactly given a worthy account of yourself these past days. Look at the walls. They’re nothing but rubble. Tell me, when do you think the King should leave? When the heathen has breached the inner defences? When they’ve put our women and children to the sword? Mmm? Or maybe I should offer myself to the Sultan – ride out there and sue for truce, just so you can drop a hundredweight of masonry on my head?’

‘That was an accident. Hell’s teeth – all I’m saying is, the longer you stay, the better the morale of the people. If you leave, what kind of message is that? If the King has no confidence in a victory, why should the citizens?’

‘This is precisely why we should evacuate. It’s only the pride of those bloody Grand Masters that’s stopping you. By the saints, put these people on the ships and get them out of this God-forsaken city.’

Plenty of folk had stopped to listen. The two men were physically very similar, albeit one perhaps taller and more brawny. They wore their hair short. The taller of the two was armoured, and his surcoat sported the Arms of Tyre. The other was dressed in the style of a noble – soft leather boots and cotton tunic worn beneath a fine, brightly coloured silk brigantine.

‘Who’s the young peacock?’ I asked, leaning in towards Borin.

He looked shocked at my affrontery. ‘Good Brother, that is King Henry, ruler of the Kingdoms of Jerusalem and Cyprus. And the other is his younger brother, Prince Amalric of Tyre.’

‘I do not have time for this pointless banter Henry’ barked the armoured figure, his sun-scorched face glistening. ‘If you want to scuttle off back to Cyprus then the Devil take you. Take your three hundred men too for all I care – by God I’ll defend this city alone.’

He stormed off and the King, his guard and entourage in tow, disappeared into the city. As Prince Amalric strode past us, Borin made to intercept him.

‘Sire. Sire – I have some welcome news.’

The Prince slowed and turned. ‘Yes?’

‘This man has brought sixty knights into the city. His name is – ‘

‘Alaric of Sarafand’ I interjected.

The Prince halted. I was surprised by his youth – probably no older than twenty. Still, he was built like a stone latrine. Wearing a severe frown and a set jaw, his grey Frankish eyes regarded me with aristocratic insouciance.

‘Hmm. Alaric. Close in name if not in deed. The Templar Grand Master has spoken of you, and your father. A pair of rogues and murderers. Villains and outcasts both.’

I genuflected. ‘Sire. I am at your service.’ I was unable to take this stripling too seriously. Naturally, he could not know that I had seen the true lords of this world, and they were called Repha’im. A mere human lord would certainly not intimidate me.

‘Insolent too. Tell me then, why are you here? Why all this bravado – breaching the Mameluk line and such like. Murderers are usually cowards too, are they not?’

‘Sire. What’s done is done. God will judge my actions. We all of us came to Acre because we love this city, and the King, and the Lord Christ. You can be sure we will fight the pagans with honour. And we are not beholden to any Grand Master. If you wish to command us, then we are yours.’

Appealing to his pride seemed a good tactic, and it worked. I knew there would be conflict and rivalry between the Patriarchate, the King and the various military orders. Sixty knights under the Prince’s direct command would bolster his reputation and influence.

The Prince nodded. ‘Very well. Good. Of course, I am supreme commander of the forces of Acre. But I accept your offer.’ He met me with a steady gaze. ‘Can I trust you, Alaric of Sarafand? Despite your poor reputation I am impressed by your bravery, and I am also in need of a lieutenant.’

‘On my life, I can be trusted.’

The frown on his shaved features eased momentarily. ‘Come with me, I will brief you on our predicament.’

A squire brought three horses and, accompanied by Fra Borin, we trotted through Acre’s narrow streets towards the north of the city. A stiff wind blew in from the sea and dark, gold-rimmed clouds roiled overhead. The streets became clogged with citizens, mules and suchlike, all carrying bundled possessions, surging away from us towards the harbour.

‘My brother the King has decided to leave Acre’ said Amalric, gesturing about him. ‘Already word has spread. And this is the result. Panic.’

I noticed the trees about us bending in the wind. ‘With a breeze like this, the ships won’t sail.’

We reached the Gate of Maupas at the city’s northern perimeter. The Templars’ many standards flapped from the tower’s fortified summit, upon which a catapult was also mounted. The walls bristled with the white and red garb of the Knights of the Temple while men at arms loaded and winched ammunition up to the catapult.

‘This section of wall is defended by the Templars, as you can see’ said Amalric. ‘Beyond lies the Army of Hama, led by one Amir al-Muzaffar Taqai ad-Din – a proven heathen strategist and general.’

‘The Grand Master Guillaume de Beaujeu is more than a match for him’ I commented.

We followed the line of the wall until the white and red of the Templars gave way to the black and white colours of the Hospitallers. Here the walls were blackened and cracked by the Muslims’ fire. Before us, rubble and stone lay strewn about the floor. The Prince drew to a halt.

‘From here to the Gate of St Anthony the Hospitallers command. This is a critical point in our defences – the walls beyond have already collapsed. The Knights of the Hospital provide a buttress against our weakest stretch – the section between this collapsed wall and the Accursed Tower further south. I command there. The Army of Damascus is camped opposite. It will be the point at which the Turk focuses the full force of his attack – when it comes.’

‘When do you expect that to be?’ I asked.

‘Now. Next week. Who knows? The Turks have laid siege here for over a month. They are in no hurry. Yet an army the size of al-Ashraf’s will be difficult to re-supply. It is here for only one purpose – to seize Acre and annihilate its defenders. So far the Sultan has slowly worn us down with daily bombardments, while his engineers compromise the safety of these walls. Only this cordon of stone protects us from the pagans beyond. And for all we know, they have mined the entire perimeter; the walls could collapse on us at any moment.’

I nodded. ‘And who defends to the south, towards the sea?’

‘A motley crew. The Teutonic Knights, plus Venetian and Pisan garrisons. A French regiment is led by Jean de Grailly, and some English are commanded by the Swiss knight Otto of Grandson. Citizens and other rabble plug the gaps. Beyond that line of wall is the Army of Egypt and Syria, including the Sultan and his elite guard.’

Shouting from the Hospitaller’s line alerted us. We looked up to see balls of flame soar overhead like comets, roaring and crackling and trailing black smoke,

‘Christ! Greek Fire.’ The Prince wheeled his mount. ‘Find cover where you can until this bombardment is over. Then collect your men and help extinguish the fires. Report to me here before sundown. I fear tonight may be our final reckoning.’

Amalric galloped away towards the castle. Borin, his face pale, nodded towards the Hospitaller-held section of wall. ‘I must return to my brethren. God be with you.’

‘God be with us all’ I replied.

CHAPTER 74

The mood of purposeful expectation amongst the Christian army now descended into chaos. I followed the line of those hellish projectiles as they roared overhead and exploded amongst streets and buildings in great plumes of billowing fire. The heat from those combustions was unbearable; my horse whinnied and reared up amongst the screaming panic. More projectiles landed across the city and erupted like sudden gigantic bonfires; a black avalanche of smoke rolled over rooftops. A jar of Greek fire exploded on the exterior wall behind me, sending a great wave of heat and fire over the battlements, engulfing the men who stood there. Burning debris fell like rain around me and I spurred my horse away from the danger, but only to ride into greater peril. A huge piece of masonry – so large that I was awed to see it borne through the air – clipped the top of Acre’s inner wall. Neatly-dressed stone blocks burst apart like a wound; the wall exploded inwards, scattering rock and dust in all directions. My horse was brained with a shard of stone and keeled over, dead before it reached the floor. The projectile lurched and groaned, flipping end over end until it suddenly halted mere feet from me, embedded in the ground and trailed by a deep furrow.

From the pandemonium of screaming wounded, orders were being shouted and Acre’s mangonels and trebuchets replied with a barrage of their own. I clambered up a flight of stone steps and peered out over the battlements. Missiles arced gracefully towards the vast Mameluk army. Some fell short but others impacted amongst the distant lines of men. But it was as futile as throwing stones at a plague of locusts. From this vantage point, the view out across the terrain was terrifying. I felt weak as I realised the full extent of the resources arrayed against us. The sultan’s own mangonels – so-called Black Bulls and one hundred in number – fired as one. After the rumble and snap of a hundred catapult arms came silence. I turned and crouched down behind the parapet. Then came a low whistle, like an approaching desert storm, and the whistle grew to a roar as one hundred projectiles fell onto the city. What followed was a cacophony of snapping and splintering – timber, clay and bone. And more screams. The city was a giant murder hole and we were trapped inside. God in Heaven, we should surrender now and spare some lives, I thought.

The volleys ceased thereafter and I went down into the city to do what I could to help. The Knights of Dudael were with my father, who led the efforts to put out the blazes, rescue the wounded and escort them to safety – either to the Templar’s commandery or the Hospitaller’s hospice. I did not recognise him at first, for my father had exchanged his pale blue surcoat for the red and whithabit of the Templars, which was begrimed with dirt and blood. He smiled as I approached.

‘Praise God that you are still alive my son.’

We embraced and I commented on his change of attire.

‘The Grand Master is a busy man’ he replied, rubbing the dust from his hands. ‘But I told him everything – all that has happened this past month, and explained the reasons why. And he has exonerated us. All of us; you too my son. If you wish to return to the order, he had given you his blessing.’

‘Such forgiveness is unexpected in one so... principled. But now is not the time father. Prince Amalric the King’s brother now commands us. We are to be stationed by the Accursed Tower, where any fighting will be fiercest. We must report to him before sundown.’

Father nodded his approval. He looked pleased with the news.

We spent the remainder of the day toiling amongst the aftermath of the Mameluk’s attack. At least one quarter of the city had been razed and was now a smoking mess of rubble. While I worked I contemplated father’s comments. I understood why he had returned to the Templar fold – it was his home, his family. I would forever be the outcast though, for murdering Raynaud the Marshal. I could never return and, in truth, I did not wish to. It felt as though a different destiny awaited me, although I did not know what. Maybe death; maybe I would die here in Acre. So be it. If I ever had a home it was this city. It would be right and proper that I should be buried in this place.

As the bruised sky darkened we made our way to the Accursed Tower, where Prince Amalric awaited us. A mix of Teutons, men at arms and mercenary knights stood around the Prince; some of those that were mounted at the rear remained on guard.

‘… The King will leave Acre tomorrow. Those of us left behind shall defend the city with our lives. All of you know what hangs in the balance. This is the very last city in Christian hands in the whole of Outremer. If Acre falls, the Turks will have triumphed. Yet if God wills it, the heathen can still be repelled – with courage, with faith and with the steel of our swords. God be with you all.’

A Teuton chaplain stepped forward to bless the congregation: ‘Judica me, Deus, et discerne causam meam de gente non sancta: ab homine iniquo et doloso erue me. Sicut erat in principo, et nunc, et semper: et in saecula saeculorum. Amen.’

The crowd dispersed and I brought my father before Amalric. ‘Sire, this is my father Ranulph of York. How goes the struggle?’

‘It goes Alaric, it goes. That is all I can say.’ There was an air of lassitude about him. I sympathised – the fate of the city lay largely in his hands. It was a heavy burden to bear for one so young. Yet we all bore responsibilities – some greater than others. ‘Station half your men on the walls facing north, the other half here facing east. The enemy will do nothing tonight so set a watch and get some sleep. But be ready by dawn. If al-Ashraf does attack tomorrow, he will do so early.’

Amalric left with his guards to consult the Grand Masters. The men made camp at the base of the wall, beside a trebuchet’s massive timber frame. We lit a fire and arranged blocks of masonry into seats. I sent two sergeants to find us straw for sleeping, and a squire to seek out food and wine. An hour later the sun had set, but we had bedding and a brace of poulet, which we cooked on a spit and ate with bread and oranges. The night was cool and starless. It rained gently through the dark hours, quietly soaking our clothes and armour. I regularly climbed to the parapet above us, to observe the distant heathen army. A million points of light danced before me, like a blanket of stars fallen to earth. It was quite beautiful. My father joined me on one occasion, and we gazed out across the plain together.

‘Those fires may glitter like stars, but they hold a deadly secret which only daylight will show’ mumbled my father.

‘The heathen sits by his campfire looking at us and considering his fate, while we look back at him and do the same’ I mused. ‘I wonder what Arba would make of this madness.’

‘Who can say? It is not for us to know my son; our purpose is only to fight.’ He smiled beneath his beard, his eyes shrinking to wrinkled slits. ‘But it pleases me that we are both here, now. We will fight the Turks side by side for the first time. That has always been my greatest wish. Let it be a good battle – fight bravely.’

‘I will father’ I grinned back. ‘I will be as brave as a Templar.’

While the great army beyond our walls groaned like a slumbering behemoth, those within waited restlessly for the final confrontation. Fires still crackled across the city, but otherwise Acre was hushed, save for a barking dog or the echoing moans of the dying. I slept fitfully, dreaming a confused mumming of devils and angels. When I awoke, my men were sat hunched before the fire, wrapt in their own thoughts, one or two muttering prayers. The whole city held its breath. By God, the night lasted an eternity. It was almost a relief when, even before dawn was a red smudge on the horizon, a shout went out along the wall, ending the night’s oppressive silence. The relief rapidly turned to sick fear. I scrambled back up to the parapet. The Mameluk horde was rousing seemingly as one, shaking the night from its eyes with a gigantic shudder. The army formed up and mounted amirs galloped along their lines. Siege machines creaked as they were wound taut. Towards the Sultan’s dihliz, a single Turkish musician mounted atop a camel trotted forward and beat out a slow rhythm on a giant kettledrum. He was joined by more of the same, maybe three hundred or so, until the pounding tattoo woke the whole of Acre. Men crowded the walls to witness the display. The drumming rose in pitch and volume until it became a cacophony. And then it stopped. A single golden ray of sunlight broke over the horizon like a glint of burnished gold. One call went out from the sultan’s regiments and was passed across the great sweep of troops by his amirs. With a breathtaking, blood-curdling roar, the Mameluk horde charged. The battle to end all battles had begun.

CHAPTER 75

For a few heartbeats I was paralysed with terror. Then I looked down to see Prince Amalric and his retinue barking orders, and I knew he expected the same of me. My father commanded half our knights on the north-facing stretch of wall. I lead the rest on the east-facing side. The Army of Egypt surged towards us. Bedouin auxiliaris armed with shield and javelin led the charge, followed by the white-turbaned zealots known as Chages. Behind them rank upon rank of archers unleashed a storm of arrows that fell upon us like rain. The heathen’s Black Bull’s pounded Acre’s walls while al-Ashraf’s giant trebuchets flung lethal blocks of rock into the city, levelling anything beneath it. In reply, our own siege machines spun, juddered and hurled slabs of masonry over the walls and into the advancing enemy. In support of the sultan’s troops was an army of musicians. Alongside the camel-mounted drummers were companies of trumpets and hautbois, and a battery of cymbals. The noise was deafening. It confused our own men and panicked the horses. But if anything it seemed to make the heathen army bolder; the Chages in particular were whipped into a frenzy, rushing forward across open ground to be cut down by our bowmen, eager for a kill. The first wave of attackers reached us, surging towards the damaged section of wall immediately to my right. Mameluk mangonels pummelled it even as the Turcoman and Bedouin auxiliaries began climbing the defences, clawing at jagged blocks that teetered and tumbled onto them. I ran along the walkway as the first few heathen clambered onto the parapet. The Shalat sank into pagan flesh, severing arms. The victims fell screaming. Teutons and English, wielding lances, joined me. They stabbed down at the assaulting troops, puncturing eyeballs and spearing faces. But for those that fell, more Turks were ready to replace them. Siege ladders clattered against embrasures behind me – the attack was spreading further along the wall. I turned and saw men upend vats of boiling pitch onto the heathen below; this was followed by jars of naphtha, thrown from the battlements, which shattered amongst the scalded enemy and turned the mass of Saracens into a rippling ball of flame. The rough odour of pitch mingled with the sweet and bitter tang of charred flesh. And while the writhing mass of carnage below screamed in agony, we cheered to hear their wails.

I heard cries of ‘beausire, beausant’ along the wall and ran back towards the Tower of King Hugh – a bastion that jutted out at the corner of the outer defences like a ship’s prow. Siege ladders were being lifted along the line, heathen warriors clambering to meet the defenders above them. But my men were gripped by a righteous fury and repelled the attackers with grim determination. I leaned over the edge of the Bastion of King Hugh and witnessed a seething ocean of men below, crashing like waves against our defences. As far as the eye could see, Acre was being subjected to an assault of the like never before known, its walls tested to their very limits. I heard the cry again and knew it was my father. Ahead, defenders were massed by the collapsed walls near the gate of St Anthony. I pushed through and found my father with his knights, stabbing their lances at a tangle of heathen soldiers and cavalry attempting to breach the perimeter. It took me a moment to realise what I saw: to afford us better protection at this vulnerable section of wall, Acre’s engineers had dug earthworks to hinder an attacking force. Now, in order to cross the ditch between rampart and wall, the heathen zealots know as Chages threw themselves into the gully, creating a human bridge over which Mameluk cavalry thundered. The white-turbaned fanatics were crushed below the horses’ hooves, but they sacrificed themselves willingly, shouting prayers and exhorting Allah to quicken our destruction. The Dudael knights did their best to arrest the Mameluk charge, impaling the lightly armoured horsemen as they scrabbled through the narrow gap. But it was clear we could not withstand the assault – the knights were exposed atop the wall, and heathen archers levelled their gaze in our direction. With arrows hissing past and mangonel shot exploding nearby, I grabbed my father’s shouder and yelled ‘can you hold the line while I search for reinforcements?’

He nodded. I ran back to my position, leapt down the stone stairs and found Prince Amalric, who was directing our bombardments. ‘Sire – the wall near the Gate of St Anthony is about to be breached. We must reinforce the garrison.’

Still issuing orders, he growled a swift reply: ‘I will send our reserve men at arms from the inner bailey to meet them.’

‘My lord, we need heavy cavalry to repel horsemen, not foot soldiers.’

‘Horsemen? How did horses get across the moat?’

‘Men. A living bridge of men – the Chages are throwing themselves into the ditch.’

The Prince stopped and stared at me in disbelief. ‘Almighty Christ. Very well.’ He looked about him and collared an errand-boy. ‘Find me the Hochmeister. Tell him I need his best knights. Now.’

The boy ran off and moments later returned with a company of Teutonic Knights. At their head was a bear of a man – almost as broad as he was tall. A chiselled, scarred face glowered from beneath his mail coif.

‘Prince Amalric’ he said by way of greeting.

'Konrad von Feuchtwangen, this is Alaric of Sarafand. He commands the walls here. Mounted Mameluk askari have breached our defences. If we do not send knights out to meet them they will run amok along our interior. They may even breach the inner bailey by the Accursed Tower.’

The Hochmeister – the Teutons’ Grand Master – looked perturbed. ‘So soon? I hoped we could hold out for longer. Very well. I will send the RitterBrudern. They will be a bulwark against the heathen for as long as necessary.’

I returned to the collapsed wall by the Gate of St Anthony, where all was pandemonium. Mameluk cavalry, Chages and Turcoman warriors rushed into the gulley between Acre’s double line of walls. Defenders on the outer curtain wall were now assaulted on both sides; while they rained arrows down on the cavalry surge at their rear, Turkish troops gained the parapet from outside the city and hacked the garrison to pieces. My father – weary and bloodied – held the vanguard as infidel swarmed onto the walls and charged his small force of Dudael knights.

At that moment the enceinte gates opened and Hochmaster Konrad’s RitterBrudern rode out to meet the Saracen horsemen. They were the elite heavy cavalry of the Teutons, drawn from the fiercest, most ruthless Livland Brethren, clad in the best mail and plate and armed with the finest weapons. White capes billowing, they bore down on the heathen like avenging angels, goring them with long lances and forcing the enemy back by virtue of sheer weight and momentum.

I grabbed my father. ‘Come, we must retreat to the inner bailey, otherwise we’ll be cut off. The Teutons will hold the Turks at bay. Come, we have little time.’

Reluctantly he conceded and our band of Dudael knights ran along the wall walk. Acre’s generals sounded the retreat and defenders poured into the enceinte. We leapt down frm the wall, running behind the wedge of RitterBrudern, while archers within the city covered our withdrawal.

Once inside, we ascended the taller inner wall to survey the scene. French and English archers unloaded volley after volley of arrows at the heathen forces swarming the abandoned curtain wall. There was little hope for any Christian trapped outside; even the RitterBrudern were now surrounded on three sides. Al-Ashraf had called up his elite Circassian askari, who eviscerated the knights with spears and axes. The gulley was a bloodbath, clogged with corpses and rearing horses. There was nowhere for the Teutons to manoeuvre; they were trapped. We did what we could to aid them, and they resisted to the last man. But the Mameluks were like a plague; they swept over the heavily-armoured Brothers, dragging them from their barded warhorses and butchering them in the mud.

It seemed that, for now, we were safe within the inner bailey from the baying horde outside. All of us – English, French, Prussian, Venetian, Pisan, low-born and high-born – paused for breath, wiped the stinging sweat from our eyes, and passed round buckets of weak ale, or wine skins if any could be found. I removed my bascinet and smoothed my drenched hair. Every man was soaked in mud and sweat and gore. Many were wounded. But despite our retreat, there was a camaraderie amongst the defenders that surpassed all barriers. We were united under Christ’s banner, fighting as one for the soul of our city. Yet all too soon the lull ended and the second wave of Mameluk attack commenced. Our foe brought battering rams in an effort to breach the gates; the Circassians began scaling the walls of the bailey with calm, ordered determination; they were accompanied by a fresh bombardment of Greek fire. Our numbers were dwindling and all too soon our blockade collapsed; the Muslim army was irrepressible and we withdrew, damaged and spent, to St Anthony’s Gate further to the east. The heathen pressed their advantage, spilling into Acre’s streets and along the wall like a tide of vermin. A garrison of citizens managed to block their passage any further in an effort to protect its denizens, who now fled in fright to the Orders’ quarters at the city’s seaward side.

It seemed as though Acre’s finest had converged on St Anthony’s Gate for what many guessed was a final reckoning. Templars and Hospitallers reinforced the line from their positions to the north; all the Grand Masters were present along with the other brothers of high office. It was a sight to behold; every brother fought with a zeal I had never before seen, bordering on recklessness. Mathew of Claremont – the Templars’ stern, ascetic Master, led a counter-attack to recapture the Accursed Tower. He and a group of brothers charged the massed Mameluk ranks; it was a brave gesture and it inspired us to fight on. Indeed, the Grand Master of both the Templars and Hospitallers joined the fray; others followed then, including my father, piling into the mass of bodies and flailing blades, but to no avail. The heathen line was an impenetrable wall of steel, and the wave of grubby white and red surcoats crashed ineffectually against the heathen bulwark.

The Templar Grand Master Guillaume de Beaujeu was beside himself with rage. He threw his crested bascinet to the ground and swore an oath to God that he would take the Accursed Tower or die trying. Face glistening and red with fury, eyes blazing, he led a second charge – this time from ground level. Mounted knights joined him, along with Jean de Villiers – the Hospitaller Grand Master, and a detachment of his finest brother knights. My father and the Knights of Dudael were also part of the melee. My spirits were lifted to see the bannof the Templars and Hospitallers held aloft together; I knew then that this single engagement would decide the fate of the entire conflict. Leaping from the wall, I joined the charge.

With cries of ‘beausant’, ‘Saint Euphemia’ and ‘Saint Ursula’ we surged towards the Mameluk horde. By God, it was a valiant and noble effort; we were outnumbered one hundred to one. Cries of fear and dismay went up from the Muslim ranks as we slammed home our attack, locking axe against sword in a brutal death-or-glory push. The charge appeared to have its desired effect; the Turkish spearmen were routed, and mounted Templar knights carved a bloody furrow through their ranks. But the heathen had nowhere to retreat. Their forces were backed up to the exterior walls; the sheer volume of men and corpses clogged every route in and out of Acre.

The Turk’s front ranks were massacred, but we swiftly grew fatigued. The heathen pressed forward like a giant bullock, forcing yet another retreat. We had killed a few of their expendable men at arms, and in return we had lost Guillaume de Beaujeu, who had been mortally wounded at the vanguard. Templars protected our rear as brothers carried the Grand Master’s bloodied, limp body to a mounted knight, who gently held the mangled corpse before him in his saddle; it brought to mind the Templar’s emblem and seal – two fellow soldiers of Christ sharing a single horse. Every brother recognised the sight and wept. The knight trotted gingerly back to his commandery, flanked by two brethren. Wiping bitter tears from his filth-encrusted face, the Templar Marshal Mathew of Claremont ran back towards the Mameluk line, grief-stricken at the loss of his Master. No-one was able to catch him before he was cut down by the enemy’s blades. Our host was routed. We fled to any safety we could find; I retreated back to St Anthony’s Gate. In the chaos I spied Borin Tolle, wounded and blackened by naphtha smoke, looking about him as though seeking anyone with some authority. I ran over and lifted the visor on my helm.

‘Borin, it is me – Alaric of Sarafand.’

He looked dazed. ‘Alaric…’

‘Borin, these are dark times indeed. Are you wounded? Where is the Prince Amalric?’

Borin looked at me, his lip trembling. ‘Prince Amalric? Why, he had deserted us. He has fled the city with his brother the King and three hundred men.’

My heart sank. I knew then that all was lost. Borin gripped my shoulder. ‘But there is something worse. Much worse. Come with me.’

He led me up onto the parapet of the inner bailey and pointed. ‘There. The Muslims call it Ghadaban – The Furious. I call it a thing from Hell itself. We are all doomed.’

It was a figure from a half-forgotten nightmare. Through the black smoke, climbing over a pile of rubble and with a giant executioner’s axe in each hand, was Azazel.

CHAPTER 76

Any courage I possessed seemed to drain from me like blood from a corpse. I did not expect to ever see Azazel again, though I should not have been surprised to find him here; a creature of his appetites would be lured to this place of death by the smell of blood and butchery. The desert demon’s blackened face leered, his great chest heaved as he surveyed the ruined, burning city.

Borin looked sick with alarm. ‘The men say it does not fight with the Muslim army. It attacks both sides without discernment, seeming to revel in the bloodletting. By the body of Christ, where has this thing come from Alaric?’

I felt utterly numb and leaden, devoid of any hope. But also dumbly resigned to my immediate fate. ‘I know what it is. It is an ancient creature, come to Earth when the world was young. I have tried to destroy it once already, and failed. Now I must try again, or die in the process.’

I removed my helmet entirely and cast it aside. ‘Run, Brother. Get as far from here as you can. Whatever happens, it is my burden alone to bear.’ I shoved him away. ‘Go! I have a grudge to settle with this devil. Run while you still can.’

Borin stared at me aghast, then stumbled back, as though recoiling. He turned and fled without another word.

Every man, woman and child fled for their life in the wake of the heathen’s devastation. Al-Ashraf’s army remained well clear of Azazel, fearing the blasphemous creature. Yet they saw how he assisted their mission, swinging his great axes through the escaping hordes, demolishing buildings as he rampaged through the city.

I had no choice but to join the rout, lest I became trapped by the marauding heathen. My objective was to intercept Azazel in the labyrinth of narrow streets, and hold him there for as long as possible until the city’s denizens had retired to a place of safety. I sprinted through the dust and smoke, past the abandoned and the wailing and the wounded. Turning a corner I lost sight of the desert demon, but instead almost collided with my father who, along with a ragged band of Dudael knights, was dragging a cart of wounded citizens through the bloody streets.

‘Alaric. We must retreat to the Templar commandery – it is the only safe haven in this city for the people, and the only fortress that can perhaps still repel the Turkish army.’

Consumed with an urgent energy, and amidst the chaos and noise, he did not notice my expression. Attempting to drag me with him, I resisted. Then he stopped and acknowledged my tormented features.

‘My son. What is the matter?’

‘Azazel. He is here, fighting neither for or against the heathen, but to glorify in the violence.’

My father’s face fell. ‘Lord in Heaven. I thought we had rid of him. What –‘

At that moment a wall marking the exterior of a merchant’s inn exploded, spraying rubble and dust across the cobbled boulevard. We recoiled as one, covering our heads. I assumed the Mameluks had renewed their trebuchet attacks, but instead the black form of Azazel emerged; he pushed the ruins of the wall aside and strode into the street. The crowd around us screamed and ran. I cast my father a look. ‘Go – take the wounded to safety. They need your protection. I know what has to be done.’

Father nodded. ‘I will pray for you’ he muttered. Then he too turned and fled towards the Templar stronghold.

The Shalat moaned and shuddered as I unsheathed it, brought back to life by the fallen angel’s presence. Azazel looked about him at the devastation, sniffing the air. I stepped towards him and called a challenge, my heart pounding like a blacksmith’s hammer.

‘Azazel. Do you remember me? I am Alaric of Sarafand, bearer of the sword called Shalat. You should not have come here, for my purpose is to return you to the abyss.’

‘You!’ exclaimed the desert demon. ‘Miserable creature. I have found my quarry. My master has commanded that I should destroy thee. Now you will lament my still-beating heart – it fills my veins with death and hatred.’

He lurched forwards, raising both axes above his head. I was in awe of his strength. The sturdiest Nubian executioner could lift only one of those ornate axes, yet he wielded both with ease.

I stood my ground, the Shalat invigorating my failing nerves. Azazel swung one axe; I lurched to the outside of his guard and the blade missed me by inches, embedding itself in the ground. His right side was exposed and I lunged forward to take the advantage, but Azazel was swift – he released the stuck axe and pitched the other at me with such force that, as I parried it, I was thrown backwards and feared the Shalat had snapped. In the dust it heartened me to see my blade intact, but the effort of defending against just one of Azazel’s mighty attacks left my arms limp and riddled with searing pain. I knew I could not withstand many more of his ferocious assaults. I needed time to think of a solution to this problem. Scrabbling up from the dust, my only option was to run. Glancing over my shoulder, the devil twisted his axe free of the earth and began his pursuit, each of his loping strides causing the ground to rattle.

Around me all was pandemonium. I careened past Turk and Christian alike, either fleeing or pursuing, or being butchered; bodies were scattered everywhere – against walls, in doorways; women, children and old folk, each of them grey, twisted and lifeless. Al-Ashraf’s army was harrowing the city, slaughtering every Christian in it. The cobbles underfoot were awash with blood; I looked down at the gore churned to scum by a thousand footfalls. Buildings were ruined – blackened and in flames; the air was filled with stinging smoke and the ripe stench of the dead; cries of the innocent begged for mercy, but to no avail. Acre had become an abattoir. It was a Hellish scene, made more infernal by the presence of Azazel. The demon swept everything before him, growling and grunting with bestial rage and dragging his axe blade along the side of buildings, the sound of which was like shrieking banshees.

The demon was gaining on me. I turned down a side alley – one that was just wide enough to allow me access; walls rose high either side. But this was not enough to deter Azazel; he made light work of the walls, parting them like curtains. Spattered with dust and rubble I ran frenziedly, swinging left then right, the alley finally disgorging me into a wind-swept, sun dappled plaza. I was near Acre’s harbour. The water was choked with boats of all shapes and sizes; the quayside clotted with citizens desperate to board them. I was loath to run into that mass; with Azazel behind me, blind terror would ensue. But there was nowhere else to lure him and besides, the crowd was already in a state of frenzy: people were leaping the stone quay into overloaded ships; mothers threw their children to friends and relatives already aboard the boats. One ship, wedged between the hulls of others, pushed out to sea and, being so heavily laden, listed in the choppy waters and capsized almost immediately; cries from the drowning were overwhelmed by the wails of those who witnessed the tragedy. Another ship, already half-full, approached the harbour on the windward side, dropped its sail too late and ploughed into the hull of a moored vessel; the creak and snap of splintering timbers rent the air.
A detachment of brothers tried desperately to organise the chaos as they counted lines of fleeing citizens onto ships from the Templar fleet. A cordon of mounted knights with lances was ready to protect the masses and engage the ravening Mameluk army, but they did not anticipate locking horns with the likes of Azazel. He roared into the plaza like an explosion of naphtha fire. Horses reared and whinnied; screams rippled through the crowd; the press of bodies intensified and caused more unfortunates to drop into the frothing waters. I ran through the line of Templar cavalry in the hope that they could keep Azazel at bay for a few moments. Stragglers from the battle – knights and men at arms – also converged on the scene, probably both fascinated and repulsed by the otherworldly creature in their midst.

CHAPTER 77

Amongst the clamour of the seething crowds I caught a glimpse of a familiar face, and barged my way towards it. The press of bodies was so great that it knocked the wind from my lungs, but elbowing those desperate souls aside I eventually reached my objective: the Lady Giacinta, wife of Vicopte Pancrazio Navarese, whose bed I last shared the night before I murdered the Marshal Raynaud le Jaune. Her noble features were drawn and streaked with grime, her large green eyes full of fear. But I saw that fear lessen when she laid her eyes upon me; a smile of joy and relief danced on her lips. It felt as though she was the first woman I had laid eyes on since fleeing Acre, and perhaps she was. Seeing her bred confusion in me – my heart softened and a sickness stirred in my gut. Was this what others call love? Still, my eyes had not alighted on anything quite so beautiful in weeks. I held my arms open and hugged her tightly.
‘Alaric! Oh, my boy – thank God you are alive.’
‘Alive yes – against the odds. But look to my adversary.’ I nodded towards Azazel, who was locked in mortal combat with a dozen horsemen. ‘If I survive the day, then I will tell you everything. Where is your husband?’
‘He fled on a black ship, abandoning me to my fate when the Turks laid siege to the city. Now I seek passage to Cyprus but…’ She cast her arms about in exasperation.
‘You will not find a ship today; at least not before the heathen reach the harbour and slaughter everyone in it.’

I considered Giacinta’s fate. She would undoubtedly be raped and murdered by the Turks. Yet to take her with me now would be too great a burden, would detract me from my overriding objective. But if I had one ounce of love in me, now would be the time to show it.

‘There is only one fortress left in Acre that can withstand an attack from heathen and devil alike. We will go to the Templar compound – they will take you in.’
She smiled. ‘I have my servant boy with me – Hajin. I cannot leave him; he must come also.’
I nodded and took her hand. ‘Follow me.’

Sword unsheathed, I shoved through the mass of escapees, Giacinta holding onto me with one hand and clutching thelittle slave-boy with her other. The Templar commandery lay at the city’s southwestern salient, surrounded on two sides by the sea and landward protected by high walls. We would need to pass through the Pisan Quarter to reach it, but this might afford us an opportunity to shake off Azazel once and for all. We left the crowds behind us and plunged into the network of narrow streets that led to the Templar compound. I stole a swift glance back at the harbour and saw Azazel surrounded by a forest of thrusting lances, his axes rising and falling in reply.

Amazingly, a few denizens of the Pisan Quarter still seemed to be going about their business as usual: women hung out washing on lines draped across alleyways; children chased dogs in the courtyards; old men hobbled to market with baskets of lemons. The Turkish horde had not reached this neighbourhood yet, and I shuddered to think of the carnage when it did. We slowed our run to a walk, grateful for the cover afforded by the relatively tranquil and sheltered streets. I explained falteringly to Giacinta what had befallen me over the last weeks; she listened in silence. In time, not far in the distance and over the rooftops, I could see the mighty gatehouse of the Temple compound, surmounted by two huge gilt lions passant. I stopped and smiled at Giacinta, suddenly recognising my whereabouts. I gestured at a small wooden door beneath an innocuous stone arch, hidden in the corner of a ramshackle wall. ‘This is the entrance to the Templar Tunnel – the route I took every time I visited you. It was always a happy journey, knowing what waited for me at the end of it.’

Giacinta smiled wistfully. ‘Those times are but a distant memory my love. And I lament their passing. But I fear we shall never know their like again.’

My mind briefly returned to the nights I spent in the arms of that woman. There was almost a wanton desperation about them, as though we both knew what was to befall us, but we remained determined to keep the stuttering flame of passion alive despite the encroaching darkness.

My reverie was shattered by a terrible howl, which echoed over the city like thunder. We sped to a small open plaza, which provided good views of the hill of Montjoie, just north of the harbour. What I saw there chilled my blood. Atop the hill was the ancient monastery of St Sabas, damaged in the heathen attack and gutted by fire; smoke still billowed gently from within its walls. The church’s tower stood proud, jutting into the reddening sky. Squatting on the tower like a giant black vulture was Azazel, a pile of what looked like severed heads set before him. He howled again, spreading and snapping his great ragged wings.

‘May the Holy Virgin protect us’ muttered Giacinta.

Azazel climbed to his feet and pointed an axe-head towards where we stood. ‘I see you, wretched man! This lazar-house offers no shelter from my impious judgement. Brazen death flies to meet thee.’ He leapt from the monastery tower and, tattered wings spread wide, half-flew to the ground.

‘He’s coming’ I said. ‘There’s no escape for me.’ I rummaged in my jerkin and withdrew a small iron key. Handing it to Giacinta I said ‘this is the key that unlocks the door to the Templar Tunnel. Go there now and lock the door behind you. Follow the tunnel and you will shortly be safe.’

‘No. I will lure the demon away. It is me he wants after all. I cannot keep running. It feels like I have been running from him all my life…’

Giacinta reached up, put a hand to my cheek and kissed me. ‘May God be with you then, my dear boy.’

I stayed to make sure she and the boy were safely stowed in the tunnel. Then I strode along the street towards the Templar compound, towards Azazel and towards my doom.

The sturdy walls of the commandery were manned with Templar knights; I could see their white surcoats and glinting helms above the parapet. A few ballistae had been set up on platforms, in anticipation of the Mameluk attack. I walked towards the main gate, which was closed and locked, and called out: ‘will you allow me entry?’

The Marshal Pierre de Sevrey appeared on the parapet and replied ‘No, Alaric of Sarafand. We are protecting many citizens – woman and children. To allow you within the commandery would mean risking their safety. Besides, you are no longer a Templar and have no right of entry to this domain.’

‘I was told that the Grand Master himself exonerated me and my father, and the other rebel Brothers.’

‘That is true. But the Grand Master is dead. I command here now, and Raynaud le Jaune was my friend. You are not welcome. Fight your battles alone, Alaric.’

I heard raised voices from within, shouts and remonstrations. My father appeared on the battlements. ‘Alaric. By God I wish I could do something. But the Marshal will not listen to reason. No-one enters or leaves the compound.’

I felt betrayed. But it was too late for recriminations; there was no point in levelling accusations or blame. ‘Father, at least you are safe. That is what is most important to me. We must – ‘

I was cut off by a growl from behind. Gasps went up from the parapet above; Templar Brothers crammed the walls. I turned and saw my nemesis, the desert demon Azazel, lope towards me, holding both his giant axes, which were caked with gore. Around his waist he wore the heads of those he had slaughtered at the harbour. His laughter was slow and deep.

‘Aaah ha ha. Wretched mankind. How degraded you have all become, for I now see the tenor of your woes. War, blood and misery are the fruits of your bitter harvest. And I vouchsafe nothing less, for I have come to reap most grievously.’ He swung both axes through the air. ‘In each hand sits infernal defiance, both carving a path to Death’s grim cavern.’ He pointed an axe towards me. ‘And now the flame of life gutters for thee, impudent snake. I will extinguish it, and with it all promise of Heavenly vengeance.’

Azazel’s stroll became a thundering charge. My heart fluttered but the Shalat keened and its icy vitality strengthened my sword arm. The desert demon bared obsidian teeth as he approached with juddering strides; the muscles beneath his glistening hide rippled; with his yellow eyes fixed on me he raised a bloodied axe. Something distracted him and his charge faltered. He dropped the second axe and raised an empty hand. My ears registered aund from behind – a click, a thud and a whistle. One heartbeat later a single heavy dart tore through Azazel’s raised hand and embedded itself in his neck. The devil stumbled, his legs buckling. He skidded in the dust like a hundredweight of stone from a trebuchet. For a moment he lay still, then groaned and hauled himself upright. Azazel held a damaged hand aloft; fingers dangled limply by a few tendons; the rest of the hand was a mangled wound slick with blood. He tore the useless fingers away with a grunt and climbed unsteadily to his feet. The ballista bolt was still embedded in his neck and blood washed over his broad chest. The desert demon opened his mouth to speak but instead a foul, gurgling croak issued forth, followed by a cascade of blood and drool.

I glanced back at the walls of the Templar commandery and saw my father beside an unloaded ballista, his face grim but triumphant.

But the desert demon was far from finished. If anything, the wounds stirred him towards a deeper frenzy. Enraged, he swung the great axe towards me, hoisting the weapon this way and that with great swipes. I stumbled backwards as the axe blade whistled past. In response the Shalat moaned and lifted my sword arm. A surge of energy, so powerful it was almost painful, flooded through me; once again, as before, the Shalat commanded my movements and took control of the combat. By virtue of its supernatural skill I was now able to parry Azazel’s blows. The demon acknowledged my newfound mettle with a roar of frustration, and delivered a single almighty blow that sent me reeling. I landed heavily in the dust and saw that a chip had been taken out of the Shalat’s perfect edge. Azazel pressed his advantage and swung again, but I rolled to one side and the devil over-extended his thrust, losing balance for less than a heart beat. It was the only opportunity the Shalat needed; the gleaming blade rolled and wheeled to the side, up and then down onto Azazel’s exposed arm. It sliced clean through skin, bone and sinew, leaving both axe and hand to fall quivering to the floor. Azazel wailed and stared aghast at his smoking stump. I lurched forward, the Shalat dancing through the air like a leaf in the wind, lacerating the demon with a thousand cuts. The fallen angel collapsed to his knees, his posture one of weary defeat. Fear was carved into his accursed features; he shook his head and gurgled pleadingly as the bane-blade drew back for a final thrust; there would be no surrender. The sword of divine retribution lunged forward and punctured Azazel’s heart. A terrible cry of anguish escaped his blackened lips; the blade’s keening grew to a crescendo; it spasmed as though drinking from the wound and, in turn, charged my veins with its strange and ruthless vitality. I looked down at Azazel’s desperate yellow eyes, into the dark vortex of spinning pupils; they grew slower, and slower still, until finally they ceased. The Shalat pulled itself from the wound; I suddenly realised the blade was red-hot and instinctively dropped it. The bond between man and sword now broken, I too fell to the ground – every fibre of my body throbbing from the inhuman exertion.

An age of silence seemed to pass before I heard someone cry ‘for God’s sake, open the gates.’ Then I was carried into the Templar compound and fed wine. ‘Don’t leave his body outside’ I muttered. ‘Bring it in and burn it.

CHAPTER 78

I must have passed out thereafter because when I finally awoke it was night. I could hear a great clamour in the distance – sounds of battle. My father and the lady Giaa leant over me.

Father smiled and stroked my hair. ‘It is almost dawn – you slept through the night, and through an assault by the Turks; they are at our gates as we speak.’

I hauled myself upright and winced in pain. ‘We – we must defend the Temple then’ I groaned.

‘You are not in a fit state to fight another battle.’

I had to agree with him. I discovered he had administered to me a dose of Arba’s opium; my mind was fugged and I could barely remember the details of my duel with Azazel. Then I recalled the ballista.

‘You –‘ I exclaimed. ‘Father, it was you who fired the ballista bolt.’

‘Yes. I told you I needed to make amends. The Master was livid of course, but what could he do? Kill me? I would rather die and my son live…’

‘And Azazel? Is he truly dead?’

‘He is. We limed the body, then burned it. I will see to it that his bones become ash; not a single trace of his existence will remain.’

I nodded with relief. But I felt no elation, no sense of triumph.

My father looked at me awkwardly, and spoke falteringly. ‘The Master… does not wish for you to remain here. He saw you defeat the desert demon, but he regards the whole thing – Azazel, the sword – as pure devilry; he thinks of you as an evil omen. My son, you will have to leave the commandery.’

‘So be it. In truth I have no wish to stay here. The Temple has made me an outcast and I accept that – after all, I am a murderer of Templars. So we shall find a ship to take us to Cyprus, and there we shall be safe.’

‘No my son. I agree that you must leave Acre, but it will be without me. I shall remain here with the rest of the Temple.’

I felt despair rise in me, as though I was already looking upon the corpse of my dead father. ‘No, you cannot. If you stay then I will stay too, and to Hell with Pierre de Sevrey. I will not leave you so soon after finding you again, and after we have been through so much.’

I saw tears well in my father’s eyes, and I too began to weep. ‘Alaric – you are everything I have desired in a son. You fill me with pride. And you are still young – which is why you must live on. But I am an old man now, and all I have ever known is the Rule of the Temple. This place, within the walls of the commandery, is my home. And the Templar knights are truly my brethren. Through my actions I have wronged them, brought the name of the Order into disrepute. Which is why I must stay now, to the very end – to prove my loyalty and atone for my wrongdoing. Until death.’

‘No father, you cannot!’

‘I must. There will be no more debate. The fate of every Templar here today is to die at the hands of the heathen horde – but to die defending Acre and its people; that is truly a good and noble path to everlasting life – a martyr’s death. And I welcome it.’/div>

Father’s eyes gleamed through his tears and I knew his mind would not be changed. He helped me to my feet and handed me the Shalat. Then he reached into his jerkin and pulled out a battered leather pouch, bound and secured with a length of twine, and fastened with red wax bearing the seal of the Temple.

‘I ask you to do one thing for me. Find your mother and give her this.’

I took the pouch from him. ‘My mother? She is still alive?’

He nodded. ‘As far as I know. Seek her in England, to the north of the country. Her name is Gytha. Gytha of Whitby. Promise me this parcel will not be opened – by you or anyone else – until it has been delivered into her hands.’

‘I promise.’

‘Good. A boat waits for you at the harbour. Go now. God be with you.’

Without looking back he left to face to the Mameluk’s assault, side by side with his beloved Templar Brethren. I knew I would never see him again.

I turned to Giacinta. ‘Will you come with me my Lady?’

She threw me a sad smile. ‘No my boy. You would not want me with you. Besides, my place is here also. Like your father, I know little else except this city and the people that live in it. We must all return to our Father in Heaven one day, and if I am to perish then I wish it to be here, in my beloved Acre. Besides, the Sultan has offered terms – safe passage for women and children if the Order surrenders.’

I nodded regretfully. ‘Very well. Then I must leave you, lest the Marshal grow impatient at my loitering.’

Giacinta handed me the key to the Templar Tunnel. I embraced her and inhaled the deep, honeyed scent of her skin – it was like a drug to me. Then, not knowing what else to do or say, I turned and walked away. Later I learned that my father, Giacinta and the others held the Mameluk horde at bay for another ten days. They did not surrender.

****

The tunnel deposited me back in the heart of the Pisan Quarter, which had been transformed into a scene of rampant bloodshed since I passed through it mere hours earlier. Bodies lay still in the narrow streets; cooling blood trickled thickly through cobbles and gutters; homes had been ransacked and ruined with fire. The only life I saw was a stray dog. I hugged the shadows, scampering from one piece of cover to another like a rat, until I reached the harbour. Another scene of devastation: scores of mangled bodies – human and animal – littered the ground, their blood staining the flagstones a dirty crimson. A few beggars scavenged amongst the dead and a couple of lost orphaned children stumbled aimlessly. I looked up; the gulls circling and screeching overhead far outnumbered the living below them – they would eat well tonight.

I walked to the quayside and peered into the sea. It was the colour of wine and clogged with debris: broken masts, smashed timber, food, cargo and more bodies, all bbbing and rocking on the scum-flecked waves. At the sound of shod hooves I turned and saw a detachment of Mameluk Askari trot by, but they were not interested in me. And why should they be? What was one man to them? They had taken the city. They had won the battle for Acre, and the war for the soul of Outremer. The Holy Lands were in the hands of the armies of Islam, and the last vestiges of Christianity were floating, dead and bloated, on the waters of the Mediterranean. Towards the far end of the harbour, where the stone quay turned inland and met the beach, I spied a small byrthing – a simple boat – pulled onto the sand. A lone figure – a man – stood nearby. Was this the vessel to provide me passage to Cyprus? I walked towards it. The figure’s head was turned away, but I saw that he was peeling an orange. From the stance, and the dress, I could tell his identity. I called out his name.

‘Khaled!’

CHAPTER 79

The figure turned and waved. I broke into a run and did not stop until I reached him.

‘Greetings Christian’ he said, beaming.

‘Khaled my friend. What are you doing here?’

‘Come to find you, and evacuate you from the city.’

‘But why? I – I thought you wished to return to your sect. I did not expect to ever see you again.’

The Nizari put a slice of orange in his mouth, chewed and shrugged. ‘Things change my friend. I did return to my clan. And while I was there I discovered things about you. I discovered that you had killed my master – the Mahdi Tarus bi-Ahkam-Allah.’

He looked at me now with a stern, level gaze. I did not deny it; I said nothing, so he continued. ‘I discovered this when I left the Monastery of St John near the Dead Sea. The murder of my dear lord and master is the most heinous of crimes. Under normal circumstances, I would swear and oath to hunt down his killer. When I returned to the monastery, accompanied by this new information, I intended to kill you. This is the way of the Hashishin. An eye for an eye, as you say.’

I grasped the hilt of my sword, my heart beating harder. ‘Do you wish to kill me now? Is that why you are here? If you desire it, we can settle things once and for all.’

Khaled shook his head slowly. ‘No. I do not wish it. I could have killed you on many occasions. But even though I learned from my clansmen of your murderous deed, I could not find it in me to take your life. I had not forgotten that you saved me from the Ifrit and for that alone I am in your debt. But more than that – all that we have been through has, I believe, made us like brothers. One does not discard such bonds so lightly.’

I murmured my agreement. ‘I see now why you behaved so strangely when you returned to the Monastery – when we sat out in the desert together.’

Khaled smiled wryly. ‘Yes. According to the Nizari code of honour, I should have revenged my Mahdi’s death. Do you remember, after the battle against the Petrovingians, you asked me what Azazel had meant when he said that my heart was full of mischief and woe? And that I would achieve Azazel’s aims?’

I nodded.

‘At that moment, perhaps the desert demon foresaw that I would learn of my master’s death by your hand, and plan to assassinate you in return. He desired your death, and assumed I would fulfil that desire on his behalf. But what he did not foresee was the bond of friendship and loyalty that would prevent me from doing so. Yes, I could have killed you, but I chose not to.’

His eyes searched mine for some kind of acknowledgement, but I remained impassive. ‘Even so, I thought it best to leave you, lest I change my mind. Since then I have meditated much on all that has happened, and I believe that you are a good man Alaric – a good man vulnerable to the corrupting influence of Iblis. You are certainly have the capacity to defend others, but who will protect you from yourself?’

I chuckled incredulously. ‘And you think you can offer me that protection?’

He shrugged again and threw the orange peel aside. ‘Only Allah knows the answer, but it has been decided that I shall try. And it is my wish that I should accompany you for a time. Besides, we share a common enemy. Although we are separated by belief, we are united in our war against the Patriarch. He is the one true enemy – he and the other forces of corruption that would debase men’s hearts and blacken their souls. I am reminded of something else the desert demon said. He told how Iblis and his legions have always tempted the minds of men and sown enmity between us. There are many devils, but only one God, although there are many paths to Him. We must unite, be strong together, and learn to resist the ruinous powers of the Archfiend Samael. So. I will escort you as far as Cyprus, then you can decide what you wish to do next. If you would have me accompany you.’

He held out his hand in a gesture of friendship. I hesitated for a moment, then took it in a firm grasp. ‘My friend, I would be grateful for your company’ I said.

He climbed into the boat and began rigging the sail. In truth, I was still unsure whether Khaled could be trusted, despite his confession. But I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, for now. If he wanted to kill me, he would need to deal with the Shalat first. I made to push off when something caught my attention further along the beach.

‘Wait here’ I said to Khaled. ‘I will be back shortly.’

I trotted along the sand, towards a shape sitting in the shallows and seemingly praying. The rangy figure, all skin and bone and wrapped in a loose shirt, rocked gently as the seawater broke around his haunches.

‘Benito?’

The figure did not cease his meditations. I went closer, splashing through the spume, until I was sure. It was the same man who murdered Melchisedek Tob; the anchorite forever afflicted with marks on his body that made him a living curse. He looked wretched now, even more haggard and dishevelled than before. I took hold of his bony shoulder and shook it gently. ‘Benito?’ Still he did not respond; his rocking and muttering continued uninterrupted. I shook him again, harder this time. ‘Benito. It is Alaric. Do you remember?’ Still no response. I slapped m across the cheek with a leather glove and his eyes sprung open. Then supplications poured like water from his lips:

‘Lady deliver me from all evil, from all sins and from all the temptations of the Devil and keep me in the midst of all perils. I make confession to God Almighty, and to all the saints of Paradise, and to you the blessed Virgin Mary, of all the sins I have in many ways committed…’

His bloodshot eyes were blank and he looked through me, constantly muttering his confessional. Those dark-rimmed eyes were marked with utter madness. Something had caused his already damaged and broken mind to descend into the darkness of insanity – no doubt caused by the incursions of the Patriarch’s evil, and the deeds it forced poor Benito to commit.

‘…Lady of the prophets, apostles, martyrs, confessors, virgins, and of all the saints. The star that is brighter than the sun and whiter than snow, I clasp my hands and lift up mine eyes and bend my knee before thee. O most gentle Lady, I pray that thou wilt succour me and present me in this dread hour…’

I knew what I had to do. Benito remained a dangerous weapon, to be used by others for their own pernicious ends, or to unwittingly harm the innocent and the ignorant. The fact that he had clearly lost his mind made him even more a liability. His emaciated face was turned up to the sky, a look of beatific melancholy writ on it. I closed my hands around his pitifully thin shoulders and pushed him forwards. His mutterings became louder, more urgent.

‘…When death shall be so near, Lady, be to my comfort and refuge and defence, so that the cruel enemies of Hell, so fearful to behold, may not confront me with the sins I have committed, but that these shall be pardoned by thy prayer and blotted out by thy blessed Son.’

I forced him down firmly into the cold waves and held his head there. He resisted at first, pushing back against me, hands thrashing in the water. But his efforts quickly subsided, as though he understood what I was trying to do and welcomed it. In moments his body became lifeless, subject to the whim of the tides like so many of the other sea-borne corpses.

I stood up. ‘Goodbye Benito. You were a man pure of heart but cursed to do evil. May the Lord rest your weary soul, and may God have mercy on mine.’

I walked back to the boat where Khaled waited.

‘Is something the matter Christian?’ he asked, looking perplexed.

I said nothing and instead heaved the boat free of the sand and into the water. Leaping on board I turned to look back at Acre, ruined and burning. I was sailing away from everything I knew and loved and did not know how I should feel, but at that moment I breathed deep and resolved to make a new start.

I called out to Khaled, who manned the sail, ‘So, you desire for Christian and Muslim to unite against a common enemy? Yet what you have said in the past has now come true: Christian rule has ended in the Holy Lands. We have been driven into the sea by the Islamic horde.’

‘Let us debate these matters on another occasion’ he called back over his shoulder. ‘And let us instead look to the future, to Cypus where safety awaits. Unless you have another destination in mind.’

I did not reply, and instead fingered the small, sealed leather pouch my father had given me.

THE END