Retribution (Guard of Six #4)

Prologue

Damietta, Egypt

The streets were dark, the air warm, filled with the khamsin winds that blew off the desert at this time of year and smothered everything in sand and heat. There was a faint smell of myrrh mixed with smoke from the cooking fires, something that both assaulted and soothed the nostrils.

The English knight standing at the mouth of an alleyway had become accustomed to that scent.

He’d been here for two years and, to him, the desert was a mix of the soothing and the violent.

So many memories triggered by one smell, filling his brain and making him feel less in control of his life than he already did, for tonight, he was on the hunt.

But he was also being hunted.

The assault on Damietta by the Christian armies had been a disaster, with most of the Christians either dead or captured, but he wasn’t either.

He’d been managing to hide away in opium houses or other places the Muslims wouldn’t search, and long ago he’d stopped being a noble knight from England and simply became what he was at this moment.

A desperate man.

Desperate for that fairest of flowers, the residual of which could take away pain in a most miraculous way.

One could liken it to a moment of enlightenment, when everything in God’s good universe became clear and a man could see his way to Paradise.

But it could also cause one to become dependent upon it, and when he was wounded in the first landing of the crusaders at Damietta, a local physic had given him the resin from this flower to take away his pain.

He still sought it, even now.

Even as the Ayyubid soldiers hunted him.

Sir Everald de Beaumont, Lord Nalliers, was a valuable vassal of Louis IX because he had lands and wealth in France as well as ties to England.

His wife’s family was a wealthy one, situated in the wilds of Cornwall, and any barbarian who might hold him hostage could ransom him for a great deal.

He knew his worth. He wasn’t particularly concerned about actually being a captive because they would treat him well.

They always did, at least for the richer nobles or the more prominent ones.

Nay, he didn’t particularly fear capture.

But he feared not having access to what he needed.

The flower of mercy.

That was what it was called by some. It was called khashkhash by others.

Whatever that sap was, it was what Everald needed to survive these days.

The injury he’d had that required it for pain relief had long since healed, but his body required the sap.

He knew that if he was captured, the Ayyubid soldiers would not keep him supplied with it and he honestly wasn’t sure he could survive.

He had to reach his supplier before the soldiers reached him.

The alleyway he found himself in was clouded with sand from the winds.

They hurled down the narrow alley, screaming and howling, wrapping him up in the frenetic chaos they created.

He could hardly open his eyes and was having difficulty locating the apothecary’s shop, so much so that soon enough, he’d all but given up hope.

Close to collapse, and terrified he would be discovered at any moment, he tripped on something buried in the sand and ended up falling through a doorway.

The door behind him was quickly shut.

“Ayuha alahmq al’akhraqu!”

Someone was shouting at him over the noise of the wind and he recognized the words. You clumsy fool, the man had said. Wearily, he sat up, holding up a hand to beg forgiveness.

“My apologies,” he said. “The sand has blinded me. I did not mean to stumble into your abode.”

There was a pause. As the knight tried to clear his vision, he could see a shape standing in front of him.

“Ya sayidi?” the shape said. “Is it you, Sir Everald?”

Everald blinked his eyes until he could actually see the man in front of him. “Ajmal?” he said feebly. “Is it you?”

“It is,” the shape said. As it reached over to pull Everald inside the cottage, the shape transformed into an elderly man with white hair wearing dusty robes. “Come inside, sayidi. Come and rest.”

Everald allowed the man to push him into a chair, but his body was tense. He couldn’t relax. When Ajmal tried to give him boiled fruit juice, he pushed it away.

“Nay,” he said, his tone raspy. “I have come for the spark of life, the very thing that gives me the will to live. You know what it is that I need!”

Ajmal did. Everald was one of his very best customers and he had made a good deal of money from the man.

Without another word, he went to the cabinet that contained an elixir of wine and honey, mixed with the powdered resin from the flower that most called the Flower of Mercy.

There were other names for it, like afioon, but it also depended on where one was from.

Every culture had a different name for it.

It could take away a man’s pain, or cause him to sleep, or give him a sense of euphoria.

It was a miracle to many, a curse to some.

Ajmal simply called it the Blessing.

“Here, sayidi,” he said as he poured a cup of the elixir. “This will help you.”

Everald grabbed at the cup, spilling a few drops, before greedily sucking it down as the wind howled overhead and sand blew in through the seams in the door.

Somehow, it seemed to be louder, but he didn’t care.

The moment that sweet wine coursed down his throat, he could feel a sense of relief wash over him.

He had what he needed, at least for the moment.

Soon, it would begin to take effect and if the Ayyubid soldiers found him, at least he’d have a clear mind and a fighting chance.

At least he’d be able to face his end.

For a moment, he simply sat still and drew in long, steady breaths.

He couldn’t even remember how long he’d been running, but it seemed like forever.

Somehow, he couldn’t even remember his life before he came to these desolate lands, full of sand and death.

Everything and everyone wanted to kill him. His only salvation was in the Blessing.

“They will come for me, Ajmal,” he said, sinking back into the chair as he waited for the drug to take effect. “What will you do when they do?”

The old man was wiping out the cup that had so recently held the elixir. “Who will come for you?”

“The Ayyub,” Everald muttered. “They are your people. Surely you will not stand in their way for the sake of a mere Christian knight.”

The old man set the cup down, his dark gaze moving to the man with the pale blue eyes and blond hair that was dirty with sweat and grime.

“They do not have my allegiance,” he said.

“Nor do you. I do not know if I can be loyal to men who fight for the same god and call it righteousness. You kill each other, yet you worship the very same God of Adam.”

Everald shrugged. “It is not the same god.”

“It is.”

“Then my god is the right god.”

“Did he tell you this?”

Everald stared at him a moment before breaking into a grin. “Every day,” he said, gesturing to the door and the windstorm beyond. “He is telling me that now. That is why he sent the wind. To confuse those hunting me.”

Ajmal regarded him for a moment. “Do you not think that it is, mayhap, God’s anger?”

Everald frowned. “Why would he be angry?”

Ajmal shrugged. “Angry at men who fight one another and justify it by saying they are fighting for God,” he said.

“The truth is that men create battles. God does not create them. And you have a battle inside of you that has nothing to do with God or the Ayyub, sayidi. The battle inside of you is something you created.”

“Me?”

“You fight against yourself.”

Everald scoffed. “You speak in riddles,” he said. “There is no battle inside of me.”

“Then why drink the elixir?”

“Because I was wounded once and it eased the pain.”

“That wound is long healed.”

Everald was starting to become agitated. “It still pains me,” he insisted. “You do not live in my body. You cannot know what pains me and what does not.”

Ajmal held up a soothing hand. “I meant no offense,” he said. “But a man who continues to drink the elixir even after his wound has healed is fighting a battle of another kind.”

Everald wasn’t so inclined to agree with him. “I respect your knowledge, Ajmal,” he said, calming somewhat. “But that is not the case with me. I am still in pain. That is all.”

“Then you have my apologies,” Ajmal said quietly. “If it is relief you seek, I shall continue to help you.”

“Thank you.”

The door suddenly burst open and a huge gust of wind and sand came blasting through, knocking items off tables and creating general chaos in the room.

It startled Everald, so much that he practically fell off the chair he’d been sitting on.

But, like a cat, he ended up on his feet, ready to run or ready to fight.

In his world, it was one or the other. Ajmal was trying to force the door closed again but Everard caught sight of shadows in the alley outside, shadows he assumed to be the very men looking for him.

Shadows of death.

Everald wasn’t going to wait around to find out. He’d run this far.

He’d run a little more.

With the power of the Blessing elixir beginning to flow through his veins, Everald bolted out the back of Ajmal’s shop, knocking the small door right off its hinges. Out into the wind and the chaos he went, fighting the sand, fighting the elements, but mostly fighting himself. Ajmal had been right.

There was a battle inside him.

A big one.

And he had to keep running from it.