The Djinn (The Order of the Knightshades Book 1) Page 22

  Another swipe blocked by the Djinn’s blade.

  “You’re wrong!”

  William was beginning to think that he’d made a mistake in pursuing Gregory on his own. He’d lost so much blood already. His strength was quickly fading. He had no idea how long he could continue his charade before he succumbed to the inevitable. He also knew that if he couldn’t win, the baron would kill every one of his servants until he discovered where he’d hidden the accursed ring. He would have to give into the baron’s demands before that happened.

  “I’m not. King Solomon himself knew of the ring’s danger,” he said, side-stepping another thrust. But before he could turn to fend off the next attack, his weakened knees buckled, sending him crashing to the floor.

  Taking advantage of the fortuitous turn of events, the baron lunged, bringing his sword down onto the Djinn’s chest. Though he held off on plunging it in and finishing him off.

  “You’re beaten, brother,” Gregory said with a sneer. “Show me where the ring is, or die now. I will have no more mercy on you.”

  William lay on his back, the tip of the sword close enough to shave his face if the baron was so inclined. His eyes darted around the room, landing on the exit. Though the golems filled a major portion of the chamber, they had left the doorway wide open.

  The baron caught his glance at the door and smiled.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t try it if I were you,” he said. “I could only instruct them for one task, but that happens to be your capture. Even if you made it through the doorway, they would be upon you in seconds. It is the one thing they will do to the end of time or until I give them a new command. So as you see, there really is no choice. If you want to live—or more importantly, if you want your friends to live—you will give me the Seal.”

  With a sigh, William closed his head and nodded. “Very well,” he said. “But know this, I will show you only to save the lives of those I hold dear. If it was only my life on the line, you would have lost this day.”

  Gregory returned the nod, his smile even broader. “I can live with that,” he said, backing away to allow his brother to stand up. “Now, show me.”

  As William slowly moved toward the door, the twelve golems moved in step, completely surrounding him as he marched. Silently, the motley group negotiated the voluminous tent that that had been the leper’s home for so long. Finally, they made their way to the library, where he pointed to the trap door, carefully concealed in the wooden boards of the floor.

  “It’s down there,” he said, bending down to uncover the opening. “My laboratory.”

  Gregory peered down into the inky darkness hesitantly. “How do I know this isn’t some sort of trap?”

  William shrugged. “You don’t. But you asked me to show you where I kept the ring…and if you want it, we’ve got to go down to get it.”

  After several seconds of quiet contemplation, the baron nodded, then gestured toward the trap door. “You first, but remember…my golems are faster than they look. If you try to escape, they will be on you in seconds.” He paused, looking at his brother’s sagging form. “And I daresay you aren’t in any shape to handle much more abuse from them.”

  Without replying, William moved onto the narrow stone staircase that led to the caverns underneath his estate. Though the fit was tight and they were forced to crouch, the clay sentries followed next, in single file. The baron brought up the rear. Once they were all safely in the underground labyrinth, the leper reached for a torch resting in a sconce and lit it. He handed the torch to his brother and then took one for himself.

  “Be careful,” he said as he started walking into a dark tunnel. “It is treacherous down here. Follow closely or you’ll get lost.”

  Within five minutes, the group stalked into the vast chamber the Djinn had used for his laboratory. Without a word, William traversed the circular room, lighting each of the nine torches that lined the walls. For the first time in years, the entire chamber was illuminated by the pale, yellow flames. The chamber was supported by four sturdy wooden beams made from cedar. A pair of barrels with Asian pictograms scrawled across them rested against each of the beams. Tufic’s mushroom patch, along with the laboratory table beside it, were near the center. To their left, several strange-looking stuffed dummies hung from cords attached to the ceiling—telltale signs of combat practice evident on their canvas bodies.

  “All right,” the baron said, impatiently. “Where is it?”

  With a defeated nod, William walked to the lab table, its glass vials and crucible shining in the torchlight. He crouched down beneath the table and pulled out a small golden box. Turning to face Gregory, he opened the box to reveal the strange ring with which he’d been so obsessed all these years.

  “Give it to me!” Gregory shouted, stretching out his hand. “Now!”

  Reluctantly, he closed the chest’s lid and placed it in his brother’s open palm. He was risking a great deal now. The timing would have to be perfect. The last thing he wanted was for Gregory to catch onto his plan before he left the laboratory. Despite the enmity between them, William wanted his brother to survive—for Isabella’s sake, if nothing else. He would need to keep him distracted so he wouldn’t look into the chest until after he left.

  “Tell me something,” William said as his brother turned to leave. “Now that you have the ring, what will you do? With the Book of Creation in Al-Dula’s possession, what can you possibly hope to accomplish?”

  “Have no fear about that, brother,” Gregory said. “I’ll deal with that traitorous…”

  A strange whistle echoed through the chamber, cutting the baron’s sentence short and sending William crashing to the floor. Recovering quickly, the leper rolled over and pulled himself into a sitting position. A silver dagger was lodged in his chest, just inches away from his heart.

  Though his golems, as usual, remained perfectly still, Gregory crouched down, panic painted on his face. His hands trembled as he reached for the handle of the blade sunk deep in his brother’s chest, obviously wrestling with indecision on whether to pull it out.

  “Traitorous what?” a voice asked from behind them.

  William and the baron looked simultaneously to the chamber’s entrance. One of the Knightshade stood in the door, eyes glazed, mouth stricken in an unnatural grimace. The warrior didn’t move. He merely stared into the space behind the two brothers, oblivious to their presence. Then, he toppled to the ground, a similar silver dagger shoved through his spine.

  A figure of a man, shrouded in shadow, slithered into view from behind the fallen knight. Stepping into the torchlight, the hashshashin sneered victoriously at Gregory.

  “Traitorous what?” he repeated.

  The baron glanced at William, whose teeth now clenched as he yanked the dagger out of his own chest. Taking his shroud, he pressed it against the wound, hoping to stave off the bleeding. Gregory stood up from his brother’s side, his chin lifted defiantly at this new threat.

  “Traitorous swine,” he said, glaring at Emir. To a Moslem, calling them something as unclean as a pig was the most blasphemous of insults. “Both you and your gluttonous master. You had planned on betraying me all along, hadn’t you?”

  “That had been the plan, yes.”

  William, watching the exchange, struggled to raise himself to his feet. This was going to get ugly very fast. Gregory was good, but no match for the hashshashin that now threatened them both.

  Whether he liked it or not, William would have to help his brother if there was any hope for his plan to succeed.

  26

  Gregory caught William’s attempt to stand from the corner of his eye. Stay down, you idiot, he thought as he glanced back at Emir. Whatever differences he had with his brother, he wasn’t sure he actually wanted to see him dead—at least, not by anyone else’s hand but his. Blood, after all, was thicker than any other bond...

  William continued struggling, pushing his back against one of the cavern’s support beams. He inched his way up
, face grim, until he was finally at his feet. Father would be proud, Gregory mused. Despite the baron’s position as first-born, it had always been William who had demonstrated the qualities and determination of true nobility. Gregory had always envied him for it. Now, he realized, he was proud of him too.

  “Now, if you do not mind,” Emir said, stretching out his hand. “The chest…please.”

  Gregory absently backed himself up against the wall as Emir slunk toward him. His dark brown eyes shined in the torch light—eyes of death. The baron leveled his blade, directing it toward the assassin. His other hand pawed the chest and placed it gently in a satchel around his neck.

  “I’m afraid I can’t allow that,” he said, wishing he sounded more convincing than he felt. Gregory knew that he was no match for a man born and bred to kill people in the name of Allah. “Your master will never lay a finger on the Seal.”

  The hashshashin’s face darkened, eyes narrowing to slits.

  “Then my orders are to see to it that you never leave this place alive,” he said. “And the stones will be mine anyway.”

  Gregory looked around, pleading silently for his golem guardians to take up arms against this killer. But he knew it was futile. The only thing they would do now was keep his own brother within arm’s reach.

  Speaking of…where did he go?

  William was nowhere in sight. As the baron and the assassin had kept each other occupied in their current discourse, William had disappeared. He’d obviously fled to save his own skin.

  So much for being proud, he thought. Though how he managed to slip past my golems is beyond me.

  Gregory knew that he was in this alone. His golems would be of no help. His knights were busy above fighting their own battle with the Djinn’s own army. And his brother had left him to his fate. No, he would have to defend the ring by himself. It was all that mattered now. He could not allow the Saracen to use its power…especially in conjunction with the Sefer Yetzirah. He had long ago given up faith in the God of the Pope, but he was a Crusader to the hilt. He would never allow the heathen warlords access to the limitless power those two artifacts wielded. He would see to their destruction first.

  Emir struck without warning. Spinning around, the assassin’s hand whipped Gregory’s blade from his grip. His right leg, following close behind slammed against the baron’s jaw. Teeth and blood exploded from his mouth as he fell backwards, shattering the work table into splinters.

  Gregory had never seen such speed. There had been no time to react and now, much like he had done with William only moment ago, the assassin loomed over him, white teeth splayed beneath a jet black mustache and beard.

  “I have longed for this day from the moment we first met, infidel,” he said, staring down at his fallen adversary. “Lord Al-Dula believed we had use for you, but it has always been a dishonor to Allah. I will take great pleasure in bleeding the life from you.”

  Emir drew his sword from the brown leather scabbard behind his back and raised it above his head. Gregory was stricken with indecision, unable to move…he could only stare up at his killer helplessly.

  A strange whistle through the air caught both their attention as a silver object flew into the assassin’s back. Wheeling in pain, desperately grappling with the six inch dagger now imbedded deep, Emir whirled around to see the dark form of the Djinn crouching precariously on a wooden cross beam several feet off the ground.

  “I believe you dropped something,” he said, his gravelly voice betraying his weakened state.

  It was all the distraction Gregory needed. Lifting his legs, he kicked the assassin’s flailing figure across the room and Emir crashed headfirst to the ground.

  “Get out of here,” William called down from the rafter, just before flipping backwards to land catlike on both feet. He looked at his brother again, eyes now hidden once more behind the dark turban of the Djinn. “Now.”

  The baron looked toward the door. Freedom and absolute power were only yards away. Once he crossed the threshold and found his way to the stairs, he’d be safe. Dashing to the entrance, he struggled with the desire to look back. Not now, he thought as the doorway loomed closer. If you do, you’ll regret it.

  He halted, just shy of freedom, and turned around. Emir had risen from the floor and was pummeling William with blow after blow to his mid-section. The once formidable Djinn now lay crumpled on the floor, curled up in a ball to protect himself against the kicks of the assassin’s pointed boots.

  In desperation, William swung his left leg around, knocking Emir off his feet and onto his back. But Gregory saw the move had cost his brother dearly. Several previous injuries secured by Tufic’s bandaging had now re-opened with the sudden twist of his lower body. A flood of crimson ebbed out from the wounds and onto the ground.

  He’s going to die.

  The hashshashin raised himself to his feet, dusted his pants off, and looked down at William’s battered and bleeding body.

  “You have been a most worthy adversary,” Emir admitted. “I am honored to be the one to end your life and I pray that Allah will have mercy on your soul.”

  He’s really going to die.

  The Saracen stooped down, picked up the Djinn’s bloodied scimitar, and twirled it several times in the air, testing its balance. William said nothing, but stared back at his opponent. There wasn’t a shred of fear in his face.

  “This is a fine blade,” the hashshashin continued, raising it above his head.

  I can’t let him die. I can’t let him die.

  I won’t.

  The whooshing sound of the sword barreling down toward his brother filled the room. Gregory flashed to action, faster than his next thought. He plowed into the Saracen just as the sword was about to reach its mark. Both men smashed to the ground to William’s left, wrestling for control of the Djinn’s blade.

  In a single motion, both combatants rolled to their feet. Gregory chanced a glance back at William. Still alive, it seemed, but barely. How much blood has he lost?

  His thoughts were cut short just as the scimitar, having finally been wrested from his grasp by Emir, whirred only inches by his head. Gregory knew he had to end this soon. He was losing this fight fast. One more full-on attack and he’d find himself missing his head.

  He waited for another swipe of the sword. Just as it reached its vertex, Gregory ducked into a crouch, sweeping one foot in a circle against Emir’s ankles—a trick he’d learned from William. The assassin fell to the ground with a thud, the Djinn’s scimitar flying from his grip. The baron quickly snatched the sword up from the ground and swung it swiftly to meet the edge of the assassin’s jaw line.

  For the first time, Emir stared helplessly up him. Fire burned in his eyes. Defiance. He would not give up. Gregory’s throat squeezed tight. He’d won. He wasn’t sure how, but he had won. He decided to press his advantage. He dug his blade deeper into the assassin’s neck, drawing blood. He hoped the gesture would make his intention quite clear.

  “Surrender,” Gregory growled.

  The Saracen only smiled back at him.

  “I said surrender.” He pressed the sword’s point deeper into his neck.

  “Gregory,” William croaked behind him. “No.”

  “Don’t give me your sermons now, brother. I’m in no mood to hear how the heathen deserves to live as much as you and I.”

  A rustle of cloth moved behind Gregory. The fool was attempting to get up again.

  “Stay down,” he said to his brother, keeping his eye closely fixed on his captive. “You’re too injured to move. Wait there until your servant Tufic can tend to you.”

  More movement from behind. The idiot never could listen to good advice.

  “In the name of all that’s holy, I said…” Gregory turned slightly to scold his brother’s stupidity only to find himself looking at the sneering grin of Al-Dula. A long knife flashed across his throat and Gregory felt his own blood gush from the open wound.

  Collapsing to his knees, the baron c
ould hear William’s desperate screams barely above the pounding drum of his own heartbeat in his ears. He scanned the room, his brother struggling to his feet and reaching down unnoticed for a single torch that lay on the ground.

  What are you doing, brother? He couldn’t actually speak the words as his blood poured out, heating his linen tunic underneath his chain mail. Black spots danced before his eyes. Light headed, he looked back over to the grinning face of his murderer.

  “I believe you have something of mine,” the Saracen warlord said, reaching down and pulling the satchel from around Gregory’s shoulder. “Now, Emir, leave them both. They’ll both be dead by morning.”

  The sound of someone clearing his throat sounded behind the two Saracens. “Gentlemen,” came a raspy voice from behind them.

  Both Al-Dula and Emir turned to see the Djinn, slouching over with one arm clamped desperately at his abdomen. Blood poured from between his fingers as he glared at the two men. The lit torch clutched tight in his hand hovered precariously over one of the wooden barrels with Asian lettering.

  William, what are you doing? Gregory’s eyes were growing dim. He was dying. But he’d hoped that he had distracted Al-Dula and Emir long enough to allow his brother to escape.

  “You should leave,” he growled, lowering the torch ever so slightly. If Gregory didn’t know better, he would have sworn his could see a smile underneath his brother’s shroud. “This barrel contains nearly a hundred pounds of a black powder my father, Samir, discovered on his travels through Asia. It is highly flammable. With the lid off, all it will do is flare up in a quick burst of flame.” He paused as he sucked in a lungful of air. “But the heat…the heat will be so intense that the other barrels…closed and compressed…will burn as well. The entire cavern will go up in a ball of flame. You want to live? Do so now before I forget that I am not a murderer and take the two of you with us.”

  Do it, brother! Drop the torch! Gregory wished that his vocal cords still worked. He wished he had strength enough to light the powder himself.