Shield of Kronos Read online

  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 is 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 rai
sed 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.

  Garret watched him ride off, wondering if de Nantes was going to do as he was told and return to camp. A large part of him hoped he was captured by Muslim patrols and taken to the Muslim commanders as a prize. It would be justice well served.

  As de Nantes disappeared from view, Garret turned to the Muslim prisoner just as the man was rising to his knees again.

  “Go back where you belong,” Garret told him. “Your god has spared you this night, for I have not the time or the inclination to do away with you.”

  The Muslim was looking up at him without fear. In fact, there was admirable bravery in his expression considering he was beaten and bound, now facing off against another English knight who appeared bigger, meaner, and far more armed than the one who had captured him.

  “You have saved my life,” he said. “Why?”

  It was a reasonable question. Garret eyed the man; he was well-spoken from what he’d heard, intelligent, with skin the color of rich, brown earth and dark eyes that glittered in the moonlight. He wasn’t unhandsome, certainly not as swarthy or dirty as some of the savages he’d seen in these lands.

  “Had your hands not been bound, I would not have interfered as I did,” he said. “But there is no honor in killing a man who is at a disadvantage, not even if that man is your sworn enemy. Live to fight another day, Muslim. But remember this night and remember a Christian knight who showed you mercy. Mayhap someday, you will be required to show one of my brethren the same.”

  The Muslim staggered to his feet, weary and wounded. “Allah favors the merciful,” he said quietly, “as I am sure your God does the same. I will remember your mercy, Salibi. May I know the name of the man who saved me?”

  Garret was reluctant. “Does it matter?”

  The Muslim nodded. “It does, as I intend to ask Allah to protect you in battle.”

  Garret didn’t know if he was flattered or insulted by that. He didn’t need the protection of a heathen god but, on the other hand, he supposed it couldn’t hurt. He was coming to think that his own God had too much work to bother with the smaller details in life.

  “I am de Moray,” he finally said.

  “I shall pray for you, de Moray.”

  “If you feel the need. And your captor – did he give you his name also?”

  It was a calculated question; Garret wanted to know if this prisoner would return to his Muslim comrades to tell the story of King Richard’s vindictive cousin and his hatred for the Templars. But the Muslim looked off to the west, into the darkness where the Englishman who had beaten him had fled.

  “He did not,” he said. “But I can tell you that he had his men capture me. They brought me out here to face him and he sent them away. He told them that he needed no witnesses for what he intended to do. He had weapons from the Knights of the Temple and he said that by killing me, he intended to show they were assassins. It is none of my business how the Christian armies behave, but it seemed to me as if he wanted to turn you against each other.”

  Garret had heard all of that, too. He had to admit that he was relieved to know the Muslim did not know his captor’s name.

  “Wherever you have men, you have politics,” he said, “and you have those who have ill-will towards everyone, including their own. No army is exempt from that.”

  The Muslim held up his bound hands to Garret in a gesture that suggested he was asking to have his ties cut. Perhaps he was too proud to ask or perhaps he was hoping he didn’t need to. In any case, Garret understood the silent question and removed a sharp dagger from his belt, leaning forward to slash the rope between the man’s wrists. They fell away as the Muslim rubbed his skin.

  “Shukraan,” he murmured. Thank you. Still rubbing his wrists, he looked off to the west again. “Nay, de Moray, no army is exempt from that behavior. But I must ask – how did you find us? It is desolate out here. And full of danger. Why are you traveling alone?”

  Garret looked at him. “You would not believe me if I told you.”

  “I would never doubt the word of the man who has saved my life.”

  Garret wasn’t sure how much he should tell him. In fact, he didn’t even know why he was in conversation with the Muslim other than he felt some obligation to because he’d prevented the man from having his throat slit. Still, there was some wisdom in telling him the truth – perhaps the man would tell others to beware of the king’s cousin who was looking to murder one of them in a most dishonorable way. If Alfaar had tried once, he might try again and Garret couldn’t, in good conscience, not give fair warning about it.

  “I am out here because the man who tried to kill you is a cousin to King Richard,” he said frankly. “We call him Alfaar because he is a vile excuse for a man. However, being the king’s cousin affords him leniency that most men do not have. I will not go into the details of why I was seeking him on this night but, suffice it to say, that my coming upon you was no accident. My king sent me to find his cousin because he was afraid the man was going to do something stupid, which I have fortunately prevented. You will tell your brethren to beware of Jago de Nantes, for that is his name, and if one of your arrows were to find him, no one would weep over his loss.”

  The Muslim nodded in understanding. “There are men in my ranks who are of the same dark character,” he said. “It is not limited to the Christians. I, too, am a cousin to a great man. My name is Al-Zayin ibin Aziz and my cousin is Salah ah-din, the commander of our armies. He shall know of your mercy, de Moray. You have my gratitude.”

  Garret lifted his eyebrows. “Your cousin is Saladin?”

  “He is. And I am called Zayin. Remember my name, for we are now brothers, you and I. You have saved me and I am in your debt, always.”

  A flicker of a smile crossed Garret’s lips. “I already have a brother.”

  “Now you have two.”

  His grin spread. “Although I am honored, a debt is not necessary. I would have happily put an arrow into Alfaar had he been beating a man who needed it much less one who did not.”

  Zayin smiled, flashing his big white teeth in the moonlight. “You shall not get rid of me so easily, Salibi,” he said. “In my country, we pay our debts. You saved my life and, someday, I shall save yours.”

  Garret could see the determination in Zayin’s eyes. “Then it shall have to be while I am in your land because I am going home as soon as I can,” he said. “I will leave you to your searing heat and clinging sands, for I intend to return to the green fields of England where water is plentiful and the seasons bring cold winds. In fact, the next time I see snow, I am going to roll around in it and consider myself blessed.”

  Zayin cocked his head. “Snow? What is that?”

  Garret pointed to the sky. “Water that has turned to ice,” he said. “It falls from the clouds and covers the land in white.”

  Zayin’s eyebrows lifted. “Ice,” he repeated. “I have heard of such things, from a caravan that has traveled f
ar to the north where the Northmen live. You have such things in your country, too?”

  Garret nodded. “It has all that and more,” he said. “Have you ever seen water and grass covering the land? I have, and I miss it. I wish to return to it. I have only been in your country for two months and already, I hate it.”

  Zayin chuckled. “It hates you, too, Salibi,” he said. “Go home. But if I have not saved your life before you go, then I am going with you.”

  Garret snorted. “We will never see each other again after this,” he said. “Go back to your people and I shall return to mine. Consider this a parting well made.”

  There was a confident twinkle to Zayin’s eyes. “We shall see each other again. Allah shall make it so.”

  Garret simply waved him off, turning his horse back the way he had come. “That would be a miracle,” he said. “Go with God, Al-Zayin ibin Aziz. And give thanks that either your god or my God was watching over you this night.”

  As he headed off into the darkness, Zayin called after him. “I will find you, Salibi! I have faith!”

  Garret simply waved him off, returning to find David wandering around in the darkness and telling the young knight what had happened. David was frustrated that it had not been him putting an arrow into de Nantes’ arm, but he was thrilled by the story of Garret’s bravery nonetheless. Returning with all due haste back to the Christian encampment, David and Garret wasted no time in telling Richard what they had come across and what Garret had been forced to do.

  Garret simply stood by modestly as David sang his praises and Richard was close to murdering his foolish cousin who, by morning, still had not returned to camp. Only when Alfaar wandered back into the enormous spread of dusty tents close to sunset the next day with a bloodied, wrapped right forearm did Richard send for him and demand to know what happened. According to Alfaar, he’d gotten into a fight with a Muslim warrior who had nearly killed him.

  But Richard knew better.

  After that incident, Richard kept Jago close to him, rarely letting the man out of his sight. He was not allowed to have a personal army; instead, his dirty, poorly-armed men were absorbed into other armies. The situation remained as such until October 1192 A.D., when the Christian armies were departing The Levant to return home after a terrible year of battles, defeats, and victories.