The Djinn Page 13

  “Quiet!” he said in a hushed but firm tone.

  The sounds ceased immediately at the command. He couldn’t see a single man, but knew they all looked in the direction from which his voice traveled…looking for guidance and courage. He wasn’t sure he had either to give.

  Durgan, one of his most competent men, sidled up to Gerard.

  “This is not going well,” the soldier said. “I’ve never seen them this agitated.”

  “That’s right. You left before we were attacked by the creature the first time.”

  Durgan stiffened at the rebuke.

  “How was I to know he was going to attack? You’re the one who sent us on our way.”

  “Still, you’re right. The men are most definitely frightened,” said Gerard.

  And who could blame them? There seemed to be no end to what this Djinn could do. What witchery had the creature used to extinguish all the torches at once? Gerard realized he was facing not only a cunning warrior in the Djinn, but a sorcerer as well—a prospect that chilled him to the bone. Fighting a man was one thing. They always had a weakness one could find if you lived long enough to discover it. But a practitioner of magick was something altogether different.

  “They’ll deal with it. They are stout men,” said Gerard finally.

  “Most of them are barely old enough to be called that.”

  “They’re brave.”

  “How many of your ‘brave’ young men ran away from the Essene village?”

  If there had been any light, Gerard would have glared coldly at Durgan for the reminder. As it stood, he had a different idea. The reedy sound of metal sliding against metal echoed through the chamber as the Gerard slowly inched his sword from its scabbard.

  “Any man caught abandoning his post will wish they had been killed by the Djinn,” Gerard growled. “Any questions?”

  No one spoke. Then, after seconds of complete silence, a symphony of unsheathed blades rang out in the Vault as they all prepared themselves for the Djinn’s imminent attack.

  “Nicely done,” was all Durgan could say.

  Gerard spat in disgust in response. The Djinn would be here soon. He could already be in the very chamber in which they now stood. He had to rally his men.

  “Archibald,” he said into the darkness.

  “Aye, sir.”

  The sudden response—so close behind him—made the mercenary jump.

  “Quietly locate everyone. Pull them together, shoulder-to-shoulder, in a circle. Face each man out toward the walls and make the circle big enough to cover the expanse of the chamber but compact enough to allow little room for anyone to squeeze through,” Gerard commanded. “And find something to light some of these torches.”

  “Aye,” Archibald said as he stumbled off to collect the men. Suddenly, the lieutenant’s movement’s stopped.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes, what is it?” Gerard felt the walls and ceilings moving against him in the darkness. He strained to maintain his own calm.

  “Look behind you, sir?”

  Gerard craned his head to look on the eastern wall. His eyes widened at a strange greenish symbol, shaped like a single letter from some demonic language, glowing dimly in the dark. The mercenary had never seen anything like it in his life—no, that wasn’t entirely true. Although the obvious magic employed to create the symbol’s ghostly aura filled his mind with dread, he had seen the symbol itself before. It had been engraved on the medallion the Djinn had stolen from…no, been given, he corrected himself, by Isabella. The soft green glow pulsed through the chamber, illuminating the faces of three terrified soldiers who stared at it in stark silence. Gerard shuddered.

  “What do you suppose it means?” asked Archibald.

  “I’ve no idea. But we’ll worry about that later. For now, just do as I’ve commanded.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  Quickly, his lieutenant scrambled to position each of the men in his proper place. While Archibald went about his task, Gerard’s nose wrinkled at a sudden, familiar odor filling the vault—brimstone.

  He’s close. Very close.

  Soon, all eighteen men stood like statues in the cold darkness of the chamber. And though they couldn’t see them, each of the mercenaries felt the cold, indifferent glare of the twelve golems encircling them in the shadows.

  Archibald continued fumbling around the floor until he let out a cry of triumph.

  “I’ve found a torch!”

  “Shhhh, you idiot. He’s undoubtedly nearby,” said Gerard. “Just light it and join the circle.”

  Gerard’s body ached. He hadn’t moved an inch since the torches went dark. Sweat beaded down his bearded face and over his lip. He allowed his tongue a swipe and tasted the salt.

  Clink! Tiny sparks flew from Archibald’s fingertips as he struck flint against stone.

  Clink! More sparks, but the torch remained unlit.

  Clink! The third try was charm and Gerard’s lieutenant triumphantly succeeded in lighting his torch. The warm glow of the flame washed over the mercenary and his men. He could feel his courage and strength returning at the comforting flicker of the light.

  Archibald stepped toward the encircled soldiers, ready to take his place among them. He stopped short, just in front of Gerard…his face ashen and mouth agape with terror as he stared dumbly past his commander’s right shoulder.

  “What is it?” asked Gerard.

  Archibald tried to speak, but no words caught on his tongue. Only a gasp of air escaped his lips as he raised one hand and pointed directly behind his captain.

  “I’ve already seen the markings, you fool! Now, get into position.”

  His lieutenant stood rigid, the torch slipping from his fingers to the floor and casting strange shadows all around them. Feeling bile rise in his throat, Gerard slowly turned around; his men did the same. In the middle of the ring of soldiers, enfolded in a mixture of otherworldly darkness and torch light, a living shadow stood, hunched over, gleaming scimitar gripped firmly in hand. Its eyes glimmered with the same eerie green as the marking on the wall and bore straight into the mercenary’s very soul. No one moved. Each man remained cemented in place by mind-numbing, irrational horror.

  Archibald fainted.

  Without warning, the creature kicked high, striking Gerard in the jaw, whirling the mercenary through the air to slam against the hard earth. The blow knocked the wind out of him and he wheezed from the sudden lack of air.

  All around him, his men thrashed in the gloom, striking ineffectually at their assailant. Blades sparked as they clashed against the Djinn’s scimitar. Rufus, one of Gerard’s more recent recruits, flung himself headfirst at the demon, which swiveled out of the way, allowing its attacker to plummet helplessly into a group of barrels.

  The creature spun around, its extended leg sweeping one young soldier off his feet. When it came to a stop, the Djinn found himself surrounded by three more guards. They looked at each other in surprise, a smile forming on their lips. They finally had it at a disadvantage and would use that for all its worth. In unison, they charged. Without hesitation, the Djinn dashed to its left at full speed, jumped toward the dirt wall, spun around in mid-air, and kicked off. It propelled itself over the heads of the attackers, rolled, and incapacitated them with a flurry of kicks.

  One by one, Gerard’s men fell, moaning from the fury of the Djinn’s assault. Archibald, having come to in the midst of the violent struggle, lunged forward, swinging his blade in an upward arc. The creature feigned to the left, ducked, and swung its boot around to strike the lieutenant in the gut. He collapsed with a grunt; blood spewing from his mouth, he went unconscious once more.

  Another soldier leapt into the fray, swinging a spiked mace. The Djinn, attempting to pivot out of the way, swung to its left, catching the edge of Durgan’s sword on its shoulder. Blood spewed out of the gaping wound, as it smashed its palm to the side of the swordsman’s face. Pieces of teeth exploded from Durgan’s mouth as he sprawled to the ground.<
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  The demon resumed its attack. Clambering forward, it grabbed the wrists of two more men; twisted upward, resulting in two loud cracks ringing out as bones splintered in both soldiers’ arms.

  Gerard’s men were dwindling. There were only three left, including the mercenary captain. His head throbbed as he pushed himself to his feet, glaring at the spectral apparition in front of him. The thing glided across the chamber, whirling fists and feet with a maelstrom of rage. The last two soldiers each lay curled in a ball, holding unseen injuries and moaning.

  The Djinn turned silently to face Gerard. Blood gushed unnoticed from the creature’s shoulder. It took a step forward and…what was that?

  The creature had stumbled, catching his balance before completely falling over. It had instinctively grabbed for its knee. Its leg. It was injured too. That was its “Achilles’ Heel!” The mercenary knew what he had to do.

  Gerard readied his sword and hurled himself at the gruesome ghoul. The clash of metal echoed through the web of tunnels as the two blades struck, jarring the mercenary’s hands. Pulling back, he twisted round and hurled his sword once more at the creature’s head.

  The Djinn rolled away, turned, and hurled two darts at Gerard’s torso. He managed to dodge one of the projectiles, but was struck in the right shoulder by the other. Wincing in pain, the mercenary tore the dart from his flesh and pounced.

  The two rolled end over end on the rocky ground of the tunnel, struggling to overcome the other. Risking everything, he pulled a dagger from its sheath and jabbed deep into the creature’s leg, twisting it furiously to maximize the damage.

  To Gerard’s horror, the Djinn made no sound, but leveled a backhand against the mercenary’s face with such force that he was thrown off his enemy. The last thing he remembered before everything went dark was the creature’s clawed fist barreling down again across his face. Then, there was nothing.

  ****

  The battle had cost the Djinn precious time, as well as blood. Although the injuries he’d sustained did not cause him pain, he felt faint. Too much of his blood had been spilled and a gray haze began to cloud the corners of his vision. The sun would undoubtedly be rising soon, effectively blocking all exits from the city…but unless he found a place to rest and recoup from blood loss, it wouldn’t matter.

  Following the glowing mark on the eastern wall, he shuffled clumsily down a darkened corridor. One more thing needed doing before he could take refuge among the shadows of the maze of tunnels—he had to find what he had come for. He had to find the Library. Find the Sefer Yetzirah…the Book of Creation. Nothing else mattered.

  Even though he’d managed to secure the ring that was given to Solomon by, according to the legends, an actual djinn named Aandaleeb, the scroll might contain some secret to creating the golems that would allow Gregory to make his army in another way. He couldn’t take the chance. Unless he found the manuscript, the people of the Outremer would never be safe.

  Stopping, he quickly dressed his wounds and listened for signs of pursuit. Confident that he was truly alone, he reached into the pouch around his waist and pulled out a piece of cloth that shined with the same green glow he’d had Samuel use for the wall marking and wrapped it around a piece of wood he’d taken from the Vault. The illumination was minimal, but it gave off enough light to allow him to proceed.

  Taking a deep breath, he pushed on and despite his injuries, he moved with amazing speed. He had spent days studying the plans and diagrams of the tunnels that the baron’s slaves had made. After close scrutiny of the maps and a careful examination of Isabella’s medallion, the Djinn had discovered the most plausible location where Solomon’s prized Library should have been hidden.

  It had actually been a stroke of luck—or perhaps providence—that all the sentries had been drawn into one place at one time. Then, it was only a matter of shrouding them in darkness and taking them out all at once.

  It had all worked out fairly well. If he didn’t think too much about the blood soaking into the bandages around his leg and shoulder.

  He stumbled eastward until he came to a fork. One way supposedly led to an underground river that opened up into a small pool on the outside of the city walls. The other led to a secondary Hub, its webbing of passages splaying out in all directions for countless miles. It was the tunnel with the water he wanted. He chose the left one.

  As he marched, he reflected on the medallion Isabella had given him. It had been the key, quite literally, and Gregory had missed it. The answer had been in front of the baron all this time, but he had failed to see the importance of a single chip of ruby embedded in the piece. Pushing his thoughts aside, the Djinn trudged on through the darkened labyrinth.

  After a quarter of a mile, he stopped abruptly. He’d heard something, something faint, behind him. Footsteps? He couldn’t be sure. It sounded nothing like the clanging stomps of the metal greaves and boots of Gerard’s soldiers. Still…something was not quite right.

  He craned his neck to hear better, peeling back the hood that covered his head. Nothing. There were no sounds, except for the occasional plop of water dripping further down the tunnel. At least he knew he’d chosen the correct passage to follow. Wiping the sweat from his eyes, the Djinn sprinted forward towards the sound of the water.

  15

  “Argh!” Gerard awoke with a jolt, sword slinging blindly through the air in panicked ferocity. The Djinn was no longer there.

  How long had he been out? There was no way to tell. The chamber was still as black as pitch save the small area behind him that flickered from Archibald’s torch, still resting uselessly on the ground.

  All around him, his men stirred—moaning and writhing from injuries incurred by the filthy demon’s attack. The world spun uncontrollably around him as he clambered to his feet. The mercenary limped to the torch, bent down, and picked it up. The room once again was bathed in blessed light.

  “Archibald,” he said, as he stooped over his injured friend.

  His lieutenant lifted his head; bewilderment and no little pain were etched into his face.

  “Yes, Captain?”

  “Gather the men. See to the wounded and get back to the chateau. I’ve got to report to Lord Gregory immediately.”

  “Uh, sir?”

  “What is it, Lieutenant?”

  “Well, sir, I was just wondering why we weren’t going to search the tunnels for the…the…creature,” Archibald whispered the last word nervously.

  Gerard had already considered it, but realized it would be futile. They would never be able to find him in this maze. Even if they did, he lacked men healthy enough to do any good against the demon.

  “Because I said so,” answered the captain. “Now, do as you’re told.”

  “Aye, sir,” Archibald said as he struggled to rise. Gerard helped him to his feet and dusted his chain mail and tunic off.

  “Now, I’m off. See to it that the men are cared for and report back to me as soon as you can.”

  With that, the mercenary bounded off toward the main Hub and the entrance to Gregory’s tunnels. The baron was not going to be happy about the news. But then, Gerard was getting weary of caring. Besides, he had worse news for Gregory than the Djinn’s victory here tonight. He wondered how the baron would react to his daughter’s nocturnal visits as he pressed on through the passages.

  ****

  In a city that thirsted for water, it was ironic that such a vast reservoir laid undetected deep within its belly. The Djinn doubted, however, that the water was safe to drink. He could smell its salt wafting through the air as he approached its algae-infested edge.

  His keen eyes scanned the darkened shore of the underground lake. Schools of tiny, ivory colored fish flitted through the shallows of the water, oblivious to the intruder from the outside world. The Djinn stood transfixed on the otherworldly creatures that swam effortlessly through the currents, changing directions to form a zigzag pattern in tandem.

  Breaking himself from his fixation
, he stood erect, every muscle tensing. The Library was near. He could feel it. All of his research pointed to this very underground lake as the marker for its entrance.

  But where was it? The Djinn looked around the vast chamber. Besides the spider web of passages that spread out along the walls, he could make out nothing that would resemble a doorway. Nothing that indicated a room that housed thousands of years’ worth of precious tomes.

  It has to be here. I know it.

  The lake. The answer had to be with the lake. He rifled through the clues he’d pieced together from the medallion and various other sources, reciting them verbatim. Finally, he remembered the one that he felt held the solution to his conundrum.

  Drink from the water of wisdom, the medallion’s strange script had read. Enter the Hall of the Wise.

  The Djinn looked across the glassy surface of the water. It most definitely wouldn’t be wise to drink from that water. He paused. A smile slowly began creeping up one side of his face. Unless…

  Crouching down, he pulled at a pack worn around his back, hidden behind his cloak. Ignoring the numbing sensation around his shoulder, he scavenged inside, pulling out a small parcel wrapped in an exquisite piece of Asian silk.

  “That should be enough,” he said aloud as he tugged at the string and opened the package. Three strange looking mushrooms lay exposed on the rocky floor of the chamber. Pulling a dagger from his boot, he carefully sliced two of the fungi in half. A plume of green spores spewed from the mutilated mushrooms, casting a weird otherworldly glow all around him. Taking a rag, the Djinn smeared the luminescent slime oozing from the mushroom all over the blackened blade of his scimitar, then sheathed it.

  His eyes moved to the rocky floor of the cavern, searching for…

  There.

  He scurried along the floor, pocketing eight fist-sized rocks, and then returned to his pack. Piling the stones in a small circle, he picked up the last mushroom and squeezed. Its haunting green juice bled onto each of them. They illumed satisfyingly at him as he cast each one out into the abysmal pool before him—each one further away than the last.