Prologue #2
David shook his head. “Not a demon, but a god. The Father of the Gods,” he said pointedly. “You are here to manage and mold us, much as Kronos managed and molded his immortal sons. Admit it; you are ancient, de Moray. As ancient and crumbling as the ruins in this cursed country.”
Garret knew that David didn’t mean that in necessarily a flattering way. He also was sharp enough to know that David was changing the subject away from his intentions when it came to tracking down their prey.
“For a whelp who believes I am immortal, you are sorely testing the laws of providence,” he muttered.
“And you talk too much. Listen to me and obey; go south. There is a brook down there and, I believe, an old grove of almond trees. If you find anything, I will reiterate that you are not to engage. Come and fetch me. This cousin of Richard’s is, if nothing else, reckless. Take no chances.”
So much for diverting de Moray’s attention.
David took the directive as an insult against his skills but said nothing, mostly because he knew that, deep down, de Moray hadn’t really meant it that way.
Still, there was something in David that wanted to prove him wrong.
He and his friends called de Moray Kronos because they all considered themselves the next generation of knightly gods.
Therefore, if David found Alfaar, he wasn’t going to ask for help like some weakling.
He was confident he could take care of the man.
Like a god, he was invincible.
“Very well,” he finally said.
Garret eyed him, knowing David was going to do what the man damn well pleased in spite of his orders. In truth, Garret understood; he’d been young and full of aggression once, so he knew the drive to act alone. “Stay out of sight,” he said. “Watch yourself.”
David nodded, turning his fat white horse around and heading off towards the south where a muddy creek ran through groves of old almond trees.
Garret watched him go, hoping it wouldn’t be the last time he saw David alive.
He was rather fond of the fiery young knight.
Besides, Richard was also very fond of David and the young knight’s death might be a mark on Garret’s otherwise spotless record.
Feeling guilty about thinking of his reputation over David’s life, Garret turned his horse for the hills to the north.
The moon above made it nearly bright as day, which caused Garret some concern.
If Alfaar was around here, somewhere, it would make it easy for Garret to be seen.
He could hear the voices again, stronger now the further he moved north, so he slowed his pace, his eyes sharp as he scanned the topography.
Someone was around here and, from the sounds of the raised voice, he didn’t care who heard him.
Garret could almost make out the words, but not quite.
The hills were doing a good job at muffling the speech.
Slowing his horse as he came around one of those big, rocky mounds, he suddenly spied a man on his knees.
It was a Muslim. He was swathed in the glorious robes the tribes tended to favor that made them look far more impressive than the Christian armies in their wool and steel. They looked like princes when they rode into battle, with flowing garments that were brilliantly colored.
But Garret quickly noticed that this man was different; his clothing was torn and his head, without the traditional turban, was bloodied.
His long black hair was matted and it was clear he’d been beaten.
As Garret watched, another man suddenly came into view with a very large sword in his hand.
The voices that had been echoing off the hills were now clear in their words. Garret could hear everything.
“…think you could keep this country, you savage?” It was an English voice, crisp, but Garret couldn’t see the face.
“This does not belong to you. It never has. You infest it like vermin. It is the job of Richard and Philip and the rest of the Christian commanders to wipe you away as one would eradicate a plague. You cannot convince me that you belong here.”
The man on his knees was calm. “I need not convince you of anything, Christian,” he said in Garret’s language, his accent heavy. “My brethren shall push you and your armies into the sea. What happens tonight between you and me means nothing. My people shall prevail in the end.”
The man with the sword came to a halt in front of him.
“Your people shall not prevail,” he hissed.
Then, he lifted the sword. But in his other hand, which now came clear, was a dagger.
“Do you see these? You shall be the catalyst for greater things, an event that will cause the armies of Richard to rise up and purge the very filth we carry within us. You will help the Christian armies succeed, do you hear?”
From his reply, the Muslim must have been studying the weaponry in front of his face, although from where Garret was, he couldn’t see enough to determine where, exactly, the Muslim was looking.
“I know those symbols,” the Muslim replied. “Those are the Knights of the Temple.”
“They are a disease!”
The Muslim looked into the face of his captor. “They are Christian,” he said simply. “You are all a disease.”
The man suddenly lashed out and struck the Muslim across the face, sending him toppling over. As the Muslim struggled to right himself, the Christian stood over him angrily.
“The Templars are a disease that eats away at the armies of God,” he said. “They infect everything they touch and they pollute the minds of the faithful!”
“Then they represent all that it means to be Christian.”
The man with the weapons shoved the Muslim over, kicking him now that he was on the ground.
“There is one true God, Savage,” he screamed as he threw his foot into the Muslim’s body.
“It is my God. Your god does not exist. Even now, as you are being defeated, your god does not come to help you. But I have the strength of my God behind me. After your death, men will find these weapons of the Templars in your body and know that it is the Templars who have become dishonorable assassins.”
The Muslim was trying to defend himself. “What does that prove?”
“It will prove that they are untrustworthy! They are thieves and rogues, and they must be purged from the Christian armies!”
It was an unsteady rant. Garret could see that the Muslim had his hands bound and it was difficult for him to protect himself. The Englishman was doing a good job at pummeling him and, any moment, Garret expected the Englishman to plunge one of those weapons into the body of his victim.
Although Garret wasn’t opposed to killing Muslims, he was a man of honor.
He did not condone killing men that could not fight back.
Moreover, it was clear to him that this was Richard’s cousin, a fool of a man that was trying to set up some manner of deception.
Revenge on the Templars, as his dirty soldiers had explained.
He was attempting to sully their reputation.
It was a confusing situation, but there was no time for clarification.
Garret reached to the back of his saddle and unstrapped his crossbow.
If he rode into view now, then the Englishman could quite possibly kill his quarry before Garret could intervene.
But a well-placed arrow could stop the situation before the Englishman killed his enemy with stolen weapons.
Just as Garret collected the crossbow, he could see the Englishman lifting his right hand, the one that held the broadsword.
Simply by the way he was holding it, Garret could tell the man intended to plunge it into his victim.
Quick as a flash, Garret brought the crossbow to bear on his target and let the arrow fly, sailing it into the forearm of the Englishman.
A scream filled the air and the broadsword clattered harmlessly to the sand as the Englishman staggered back with an enormous spiny arrow sticking out of his arm.
Garret spurred his charger forward into full view as the panicked Englishman suddenly bolted for his stolen horse, thinking that he’d been set upon by the colleagues of the man he had intended to kill.
Muslims!
Ripping the arrow out of his arm, the Englishman leaped onto the horse, nearly falling off when the animal bolted forward.
It was by sheer luck that he managed to stay astride the beast, turning around to see what army was charging upon him.
But all he saw was a lone Christian knight with an emptied crossbow in his hand.
As the moonlight illuminated the heavily-armed knight who had launched an arrow at him, the Englishman raised his injured, bloodied arm and shook it angrily.
“You traitor!” he screamed.
Garret could see the man’s features; he was pale-skinned, with a wild mop of hair that was some shade of blonde or even reddish-blonde.
It was difficult to tell. He was slender and unhandsome, made worse by the expression he bore.
Since Garret was wearing both his mail hood and a helm, he knew the man couldn’t see him very well.
Not well enough to pick him out of a lineup of men, at any rate.
“De Nantes,” he said calmly, “Richard has sent me to find you. He expects you back in camp immediately. Return with all due haste.”
Jago de Nantes was furious. Beyond fury, actually; he was beginning to foam. “You do not give me orders,” he cried. “I shall tell the king what you have done to me!”
“And I shall tell the king that you intended to kill this man and let the Templars take the blame.”
That shut de Nantes up quickly. Knowing he had no argument and feeling cornered, he dug his heels into the side of his horse in a fit of anger and sped off into the moonlit night.