The Djinn (The Order of the Knightshades Book 1) Page 15

  At least for a few minutes. Just a few peaceful minutes.

  The strain of the evening’s activities had been almost too much for him. The injuries and blood loss from his encounter with Gerard and his men. The near-suffocation at the hands of the Warden. Almost drowning in the library flood he’d caused with his own fire powder. It was all just too much for his body to take.

  No. I cannot. To stay is to die, he thought as his head rested against the rocky ground at the edge of the lake. My death means enslavement to those under Gregory’s power. I cannot rest. He pushed himself onto unsteady feet. Yet.

  He gripped the scroll tighter in his fist and took a deep breath. It was time to go. Time to get back. His mission was almost over. He was finally beginning to see the light through the murky world in which he’d lived for so long. Soon, he would finally be free. He just had one more thing to do. He had to get the scroll out of Jerusalem and he would finally be done.

  He allowed a wan smile at the thought.

  Almost free.

  A sudden noise from behind spun him around, but it was too late. A shadow leapt from the darkness in a spinning kick that slammed against the Djinn’s covered face. Recovering faster than should be humanly possible, his arms came up to block a whirlwind of blows from the black-garbed assailant. But he was still protectively clutching the scroll in one, preventing an adequate defense. His attacker, observing the weakness, landed a series of blows against the shoulder that had been injured in his fight with Gerard’s men.

  Countering, the Djinn wheeled around, his arm whipping in a brutal backhand against his attacker’s face. Pressing the advantage, he dove head first, striking his enemy’s midsection and causing both to stumble onto the bank of the underground lake.

  The two combatants grappled, each striving to get the upper hand on the other. Suddenly, with blinding speed, a streak of silver swung out from the assailant’s tunic and a razor sharp dagger pierced deep into the Djinn’s gut. Hot, crimson liquid poured out of the wound, soaking the Djinn’s free hand as he struggled to close the injury.

  “You have fought bravely, Dark One,” said Emir, the hashshashin, standing over his fallen enemy who still held onto the scroll with one hand. “I know what kind of disadvantage you’ve had in this battle and yet, you were unwilling to relent. It has been an honor to fight such a worthy opponent, but I could not allow you to leave with the Book.”

  The Djinn’s eyes began to grow dim. He knew that he had been defeated and was even now spiraling into unconsciousness. He had lost. The thought paralyzed him with dread. The Sefer Yetzirah in the hands of Gregory was bad enough. To have such a powerful text in possession of the hashshashin’s lord was unthinkable. What such a man would do with the power of creation itself…the Djinn could only shudder at the thought.

  “Do not worry,” Emir said, a grim smile spreading across his dark face. “I will not kill you here. It would not be worthy. For now, I will merely retrieve the scroll for my lord.”

  The hashshashin stood above him as the Djinn’s vision continued to darken. The last thing he remembered before blacking out was the dark image of his attacker reaching down to take his prize.

  17

  “He did what?” the baron shouted, spinning around to glare at Gerard.

  “He managed to get through our defenses,” repeated the mercenary. “He disabled my men as if they were mere squires, m’lord. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Gregory’s scowl never faltered and Gerard tried to remember the last time he’d seen his employer blink. The mercenary had been right…the baron had not liked the news of the Djinn’s infiltration into Solomon’s Vault at all.

  “And pray tell, how did he get past the ever formidable Gerard D’Bois?”

  The mercenary’s eyes traced the outline of the stones in the floor. He simply could not meet the baron’s gaze. He had been utterly disgraced.

  “He…he used some trickery, m’lord. Some form of dark magic I’ve never seen before.”

  “Magic, you say?” scoffed Gregory as he moved over to the mercenary, his cold hand lifting Gerard’s face, forcing him to look into his eyes. “Magic? Really, Gerard, I am very disappointed in you.”

  “But…”

  “Enough excuses!” the back of the baron’s hand lashed out across Gerard’s face. “I will have no more excuses from you.”

  The mercenary instinctively nursed his stinging jaw as Gregory paced the floor of his banquet hall. The baron’s thin, wiry frame cast a skeletal shadow across the stones; his head bowed deep in thought. Walking over to an open window, the baron silently stared out at the sun creeping over the horizon.

  “We can assume your incompetence has cost us the Book.”

  “We don’t know that for sure,” said Gerard hopefully. “We’re not even sure he knew where it was located. If we couldn’t find it, then how could he?”

  “Because, you imbecile, he would have never made his presence known in the Vault if he were not positive,” the baron said. “No. He knew exactly where he was going. That was why the squire was sent to mark the walls. It was a marker to show him the correct direction in the darkness.”

  Gerard reluctantly agreed with his master’s assessment. The creature no doubt possessed both the Book of Creation and Solomon’s Seal.

  “Is there nothing we can to salvage your quest?” Gerard asked. He still possessed information that could very well change everything, but he was reluctant to share it just yet. First, he wanted to know what his employer had in mind.

  The baron’s one good eye blinked at the question.

  “There’s only one thing we can do,” he said. “I must proceed with the sacrifice. Awaken Rakeesha’s golems and bend them to my own will. We will discover a way to take the Book, as well as Solomon’s ring, from our enemy’s foul hands afterwards.”

  “Perhaps there is a way to do that sooner than you’d expect, m’lord.” The mercenary felt his voice crack as he spoke the words. He fully anticipated that what he was about to suggest would go even worse than the news of the Djinn’s victory in the Vault. But it was the only way he could imagine regaining what they had lost. “What if I said there might be a way to recover them with a simple gambit.”

  The baron turned; his eyes moved slowly up from thought to face his hired soldier.

  “What do you have in mind?”

  Bringing himself up to his full height, Gerard tensed as he considered his word choice perfectly. Then, he inhaled deeply.

  “There is more that I haven’t told you yet. It’s about your daughter.”

  “My daughter?”

  “Yes. Last night, after the Djinn absconded from your quarters, I wandered out into the eastern courtyard,” said Gerard. “Er...in search of the creature, of course.”

  The baron’s icy stare burned at this admission. Gerard and Gregory had had words over this many times before. The baron knew of his intentions toward his daughter and hadn’t liked it at all. The mercenary had been caught on more than a few occasions staring up lasciviously at Isabella’s balcony and Gregory had explicitly warned him not to do so ever again. Gerard was not deemed good enough even to look upon the fairness of such an exquisite woman, the baron had told him.

  “It wasn’t like that, m’lord,” Gerard said. “As I said, I was looking for the Djinn. I had no intentions of spying on your daughter.”

  It was a lie, but Gregory had no way of knowing that. And if his plan succeeded, he would have the best of all possible worlds. The demon would be in his power and the mercenary would finally have the thing he treasured most of all. He couldn’t believe he’d not thought of it earlier. It would have prevented the embarrassing debacle of Solomon’s Vault earlier that morning.

  “Proceed, D’Bois, before I lose the rest of my already waning patience,” the baron’s voice seethed under his breath.

  “Anyway, as I was searching for the foul beast that has plagued us for too long, I was drawn to the sound of voices coming from your daughter�
�s chambers.”

  The baron’s teeth grinded against his jaw, but he said nothing.

  “I looked up and saw your daughter…she was in the embrace of the Djinn.”

  Gregory’s eyes closed as a resigned sigh escaped clinched lips. It was not the reaction the mercenary had expected. Not at all. Gerard tensed again, awaiting the explosion of anger that the baron would undoubtedly unleash upon him. But it never came.

  “Of course,” Gregory said finally, his voice eerily calm. “It makes perfect sense. He would have naturally sought her help. He would have used her love for his own purposes. I’m a fool to have not seen it before.”

  Gerard couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The baron seemed almost relieved, as if he had expected something far worse.

  “M’lord?” the mercenary said.

  “It’s quite all right, Gerard. I’m disappointed, but otherwise fine. My daughter, on the other hand, must be…punished…for her betrayal.”

  The mercenary turned to look his lord square in the face. It was now or never. Gregory seemed open. He might agree to his plan now.

  “I do have an idea. If it works, you will not only be able to retrieve both ring and scroll, but the head of the Djinn in the process,” said Gerard, a wary smile spreading across his face. “But you’ve got to let me do it my way. You cannot interfere.”

  The baron turned away, walking over to the window again. The song of a sparrow flitted through the early morning air.

  “I can fathom what you have in mind,” croaked the lean figure of the baron, his head hanging defeated. He let out a sigh and continued. “I will continue with my plans to resurrect the golems down in the Vault. While I’m taking care of this, I give you permission to do what must be done. But hear me, D’Bois…she is not to be harmed. Do you understand?”

  Elation flooded every pore in Gerard’s body. His plan would work. He was being handed the prize he’d sought since coming into the baron’s employ. And he would finally have revenge on the one who had caused him such trouble. Things could not have gone better.

  “Aye, m’lord. I understand perfectly,” said the mercenary as he strode out of the baron’s great hall.

  ****

  Isabella stifled a yawn. She hadn’t slept at all. Her thoughts had been a jumbled mess of fear, doubt, and loathing. Why must he be so stubborn? He had to know how dangerous it was to challenge her father, yet he persisted. The man the people now called the Djinn would die if he continued down this road—if he wasn’t dead already.

  She should have heard something by now. It was nearly ten in the morning. He usually sent word to her by this time whenever he went out on one of his excursions. She had known that entering into her father’s tunnels was madness, but he would not hear it. His quest, believed to be a holy mission from God, spurred him beyond rational thought. He was a man just as obsessed as her own father and she feared the obsession would destroy them both.

  She looked into the fine Persian mirror as she gently brushed the tangles from her hair. She stared numbly at the dark circles that enveloped her eyes and let out a mournful sigh.

  They were so alike, the two of them. Neither would ever admit it, of course, but it wouldn’t change the fact. Both men railed against what they perceived as the injustice of life. Both men raged against the forces beyond their control.

  The problem for her, however, was that unlike the Djinn, her father’s ambition would destroy thousands of lives. She knew without doubt that left unchecked, Gregory's schemes would soon be unstoppable. The only hope lay upon the shoulders of the one so many now feared.

  Her thoughts were suddenly shattered by pounding on the door of the bedchamber. She felt the throb of her heart as it leapt up toward her throat. This interruption could be anything but good.

  “M’lady,” said the acidic voice of Gerard from the other side of the door. “I need a word with you. It is urgent business for your father.”

  Nearly panicked, Isabella searched her room for anything she could use…anything that could be used as a weapon. The Djinn had warned her that something like this might happen and since he had not sent word to her, she could only assume the worst. Somehow, her father’s hired soldier had connected her to his enemy.

  The pounding became louder, jolting her with every blow.

  “M’lady, I’m serious. I must see you immediately.”

  The door, made of solid cedar, was strong, but she doubted it would hold up to a full assault by Gerard and his men. She spun around the room and caught the gleam of silver near her night table.

  The curved dagger the Djinn had given her several months before. She felt faint at the thought of using such a weapon, but she was determined to do whatever she could to escape. Even though she was confident this visit was officially regarding her father’s nemesis, she knew the mercenary’s desires for her and she would die before she ever allowed him to touch her.

  She palmed the blade just as the door buckled under a heavy crash. They were using a battering ram to make entry. Gerard’s face peered through the splintered wood of the door.

  “Come now, Isabella. It doesn’t have to be this difficult. Your father only wants me to ask you a few questions,” the mercenary said. “You will not be harmed.”

  “What’s all this?” came the sweet, familiar voice of Margaret from the hallway. “You’ve got no business with my lady.”

  “Get out of my way, hag! I have orders from the baron himself.”

  Isabella stiffened. She wasn’t sure whether to be elated at the rescue from her maidservant or terrified. She’d never seen Gerard so grave.

  “I’ll show you how to treat a woman, you clout,” Margaret growled. Isabella, peering through the cracks in the door watched as her closest friend and confidant slammed her walking stick against the mercenary’s head.

  WHACK! WHACK!

  “Enough, woman!” said Gerard, protecting his skull with his arms. “Stop this immediately.”

  Gerard’s men stood helplessly—awaiting orders from their captain. Every man in the city had a healthy fear and respect for the formidable size and strength of Margaret. She was not a woman to manhandle…especially if that particular man wished to maintain healthy limbs for long.

  Isabella would have giggled at the sight under other circumstances. She sensed that now was not the time for such antics.

  “Margaret, please. Stop,” said Isabella, her voice cracking under the strain of fear. “Gerard, I’m coming out.”

  Her maidservant didn’t listen. Her stick pounded violently against Gerard’s metal helmet. A scrape of metal rang out in the hallway as Isabella struggled to unbar the door.

  Oh Lord, please, no. Isabella’s fingers fumbled over the latch. With the door splintered as it was, the locking mechanism was jammed. She couldn’t open the door.

  “I said…ENOUGH!” roared Gerard.

  Isabella’s eyes widened in terror as the mercenary’s blade swung through the air, cleaving Margaret from shoulder to waist. Blood sprayed as her friend's lifeless form crumbled to the floor.

  “No!” Isabella screamed. “No! No! No!”

  “Now, my dear, stand aside. I’m coming in.”

  Isabella dropped to her knees. Sorrow burst from her eyes at the sight of her dead friend. How could this be happening? The knife hidden in her palm clattered to the floor. It was useless now anyway. There was no escape. All she could do was to trust in God to see her through the ordeal she was certain would come.

  The door creaked as more wood splintered from the blow of an axe. Gerard carefully stepped into her room and squatted down beside her. His hands rested on her shoulders as he leered at her heaving form. A yellow toothed grin splayed across his face at her.

  She returned his stare, fury building inside her. No matter what, she would not allow the barbarian to have his prize. She would do whatever it took. No matter the cost. And she vowed at that moment…Margaret would be avenged.

  ****

  Baron Gregory De L’Ombre l
ooked down at the man who lay trembling, bound and gagged upon the stone table that had once been used by King Solomon himself—possibly as a writing desk for one of his books of Scripture—and smiled.

  “My dear Tertius,” he said to the Vatican priest. “You should be rejoicing. You are assisting us in ushering a brand new age into our world. How many people can possibly say that?”

  The monsignor’s eyes widened, pleading silently for mercy behind his gag. His arms shook against the iron chains that held him fast to the soon-to-be altar. His legs kicked pitifully. Tears streamed uncontrollably down his cheeks.

  “Come now. There is no need for fear,” Gregory cooed, stroking a single strand of gray hair back from the priest’s face. “If your God is as powerful as you men of the cloth believe, then you should really have nothing to worry about, right?”

  Someone cleared a throat from behind the baron and he turned to see a nearly emaciated Ibrihim—his surname escaped the baron at the moment—shaking his head with caution. The nomad was dressed in the rich robes of a Jewish priest, complete with chest plate and headdress.

  “M’lord,” the Essene spoke softly with trembling voice. “I’d caution against blasphemy in this unholy place. At least until our dark deed is complete. It would be unwise on many levels to anger Yahweh when your quest is so close to completion.”

  Gregory sneered, then waved his hand in dismissal.

  “Fine,” he said, gesturing toward the twelve golems that lined the chamber. “Then let’s just get this over. Proceed with the sacrifice.”

  Ibrihim gawked at the baron.

  “M’lord,” he said with a slight bow. “We’ve been over the specifics of this ritual before. In order for this to work…in order for control of Rakeesha’s golems to be transferred to you, it must be you who performs the sacrifice. Your priest is your superior. Your killing him will essentially rob him of his power over you. The blood from his wound, applied to the clay of the creatures, will establish your own power over them. For me to do it would mean nothing.” He stripped from the ceremonial robes and handed them to Gregory. “I told your seamstress as much when she dressed me in these robes. They are yours to be worn, not mine.”