Blades of Valor (5 page)

Thomas closed his eyes briefly.
Should I trust them?
Enough strange events had occurred so he might full well believe they were Druids, determined to locate his treasure of priceless books.

His only choice was to play this game to its end. And now the bait promised him was nothing less than the father he had long believed dead.

Nine

T
he caravan moved south along the flat road of the coastal plains. Far ahead, high, rounded hills, blue with distant haze, shimmered against the backdrop of an almost white sky.

The heat seemed an attacker. Each time Thomas wiped his face and exposed his skin to the scorching air, he breathed gratitude at the layers of fine, light cloth that trapped cooler air close to his body. Long before the sun passed its highest point, one of the waterskins made from calf leather tied to his saddle was half empty.

Much more difficult than the heat for Thomas was the evil of watching the slaves stumble alongside the camels. There were a dozen; they, too, wore the layers of white for the desert heat, and they, too, had covered heads against the blazing white sun, for Muzzamar knew dead slaves were of little value in Damascus.

They were marked different, however, by the single rope that attached one to the other. This rope was looped around each neck, so that when one fell, he risked dragging the others down. When one slowed, he himself risked strangulation.

Thomas noted, too, that they had no skins of water, and he vowed to ease their thirst as soon as he could.

Muzzamar, at the front of the caravan, finally raised his sword to call a halt when the lead camels reached a stand of trees that hugged a wide well.

Thomas did not dismount until he had loosened two of his waterskins from the saddle.

He nearly fell when his feet first touched the packed sand road. Sitting motionless for so long in the heat had cramped his legs, and it took effort to straighten them.

Thomas ignored the scowl of the slavemaster—for the heavy waterskins were obvious in his hands—and moved to the first of the slaves. He had been warned by both Sir William and Muzzamar not to draw attention to himself, but he knew the men on foot must be in agony.

“Take this,” Thomas said as he held out the waterskin, “then pass it along.”

The slave lifted his head. Dark eyes, glazed with exhaustion, now opened wide with surprise. The slave hesitated, briefly, then snatched the leather bag from Thomas and gulped water.

Thomas waited, then realized the slave had no intention of ending his drink, so he gently grabbed the slave’s wrists and pulled the waterskin away.

Thomas carried the waterskin to the next slave. While that slave drank, Thomas tried to ignore the oozing rope burns around the slave’s neck.

Then to the next. And the next. Until he reached the last slave held by that rope, the terrible line of death.

Unlike the other slaves, this one did not open his hands gladly to receive the waterskin.

“Take this.” Thomas urged the waterskin on the man.

“You risk your life,” the slave answered, head still down.

Thomas stepped back in surprise.
The man spoke English.

“Among these men, it is considered a weakness to show mercy,” the slave continued. “And we will be fed and watered at nightfall, for they have no wish to kill us.”

“You speak English!”

The slave redirected his stare from the ground to Thomas, and the eyes that rose were not the deep brown of these darker people, but a blue so piercing it almost startled Thomas.

“I speak English because I am English,” the man said in a low voice. “Find it not so amazing. Many of us are doomed in this strange land, the long forgotten of a forsaken Crusade. I had avoided capture for ten years.”

The man shrugged. His face showed no expression. It was an older face of a man equal to Thomas in height. How old, Thomas could only guess, but as the wind tugged against the cloth that protected the man’s head, Thomas saw edges of gray at the temples of the man’s dark hair. The wrinkles around the man’s mouth and eyes had not yet deepened enough to show shadow. His nose was crooked in several places, as if it had been broken more than once. What little of his teeth flashed during his quiet words showed them to be straight and without gaps—the man had not eaten poorly while he avoided capture.

“Ahead,” the man finished, “lies what tomorrow brings.”

Thomas again pushed the waterskin toward the slave. This time the water was accepted, with another shrug. The slave drank slowly, then returned the water.

“You are too young to have arrived with the last Crusaders,” the man said. “Yet your command of their tongue tells me you are not a new arrival to this land. And you are not among us slaves, so your story must be one of interest,” the man finished.

The man spoke his insight with casual tones. Thomas nodded stiffly to conceal his growing interest.

“Do not attempt to help me escape,” the man said calmly.

Said thus, an unexpected statement with the same lack of passion as all the man’s other words, the advice had the impact of a physical blow. For indeed, Thomas was contemplating that same subject.

Before Thomas could protest, the man fixed him with those uncanny eyes and unhurriedly spoke more.

“We are fellow countrymen. And, methinks, men of the same breed, for cowards and thieves would not stray across a world to enter the Holy Land.” The man raised his voice slightly. “Yet do not offer your help. Even should you succeed, with me you would become a hunted outlaw with noplace to hide.”

A deep laugh greeted that remark.

“Well spoken, Lord Baldwin!” The words came from behind them in Arabic, for Muzzamar had approached quietly and unseen to Thomas. “Words spoken on my behalf?”

Muzzamar clapped Thomas on the back. “Lord Baldwin saw me, of course. But it is still advice worth heeding. For you are a stranger among us, and I suspect you know little of our history.”

Muzzamar took Thomas by his elbow. “Come with me into the shade. For we have a little time before our journey resumes.”

Thomas glanced at Lord Baldwin. The older man nodded slightly, a gesture that seemed a farewell among equals.

Muzzamar spoke as he guided Thomas back to the trees. “You know, by now, of the Mamelukes. Two centuries ago, slaves to the Egyptians overthrew their masters, and later they overthrew the foreigners who built fortresses and castles all across this land.”

The trader pointed east. “In those hills, as you might know, stood the great Crusader castles. The greatest, known as Saphet, commanded the very road we travel. The Mamelukes had laid siege
and promised safe passage to the knights upon their surrender. Yet when the gates of the castle were opened, every knight was beheaded upon the spot.”

Muzzamar examined Thomas for his reaction.

“So you see”—Muzzamar’s smile was nearly a caress of cruelty, and Thomas understood with a chill how different the culture of this land was—“we cannot afford to anger the Mamelukes. To our enemies, we are equally ruthless. And neither we, nor the Mamelukes, show the softness of the English.”

Muzzamar tapped the near-empty waterskin Thomas still held.

“We do not provide comfort to our enemies, and we show no mercy to those who betray us.” Muzzamar’s smile did not change. “Take the advice offered by Lord Baldwin. Journey along your own path. I have guaranteed your safety because I have accepted gold. And I am no common bandit. I will deliver you as promised.

“But should you become an enemy,” Muzzamar continued evenly, “you will have the choice of death or slavery. And death would be more pleasant.”

Ten

O
n the eve of the third day of travel, Muzzamar visited Thomas in his tent.

“My young friend,” Muzzamar said, beaming, “tonight, we shall feast.”

“Even more?” Thomas said. He finished drying his face. It had felt wonderful to wash away the day’s dust and sweat in the basin supplied by servant girls. “Surely you cannot exceed the goat’s milk curds and dried figs that have sustained us thus far.”

Muzzamar frowned, then laughed with understanding. “A jest!”

With a return smile, Thomas nodded. A jest indeed. For the previous few days of travel had been at a forced pace. Tents had not been raised at nightfall, nor cooking fires lit. Sleep had been short and in open air. The entire caravan had always been ready to move.

“Truly,” Muzzamar said, “our people do not always eat in such a manner. And tonight, you shall taste our finest.”

“No danger of bandits tonight?” Thomas asked. “Nor of Mameluke soldiers?”

“We are well into the Valley of Jezreel,” Muzzamar said, as if this explained all.

“My apologies for ignorance,” Thomas said. “You have been greatly occupied, and there have been no others to inform me of matters of the journey.”

“Of course, of course,” Muzzamar said. “My own apologies for neglect of an honored guest. Yet we were in bandit-infested country, and my first duty was survival of the caravan.

“The passage into this valley is well guarded by those hills. It favors large groups of bandits. Naturally, we are able to protect ourselves, but only at great cost, and to tarry in those hills provides the bandits unnecessary temptation. But now …”

Muzzamar swept his arms wide. “Now we are in the open valley. And more so, a caravan of traders on its way to St. Jean d’Acre has joined us in its passing. There is safety away from the hills, and safety in numbers, Thomas. We shall rest here and feast. You will be welcome at the feast, for it is hardly likely that Mameluke soldiers will appear at night to inspect the caravan.”

“How long will we rest?” Thomas asked. Thoughts of Nazareth and Sir William and Katherine and his father filled his every waking moment.

“The road to your destination is only a day’s travel,” Muzzamar said. “Well within sight of Mount Tabor. From there, two of my men will guide you north into the hills to Nazareth.”

Muzzamar caught the darkness that crossed Thomas’s face.

“Come, come, Thomas. Have no fears. We have successfully passed through the dangerous country. As a small group, you and my guides will easily avoid Mameluke soldiers on the road to Nazareth. Now, your arrival there is a certainty.”

Thomas forced a smile. For his fears had not been of arrival, but what might occur after.

Thomas groaned as he laid his head to rest. The sealed package he had sworn to guard for Sir William was wrapped in a blanket and served as his pillow.

How could he possibly sleep?

Muzzamar’s promise of a feast had been only a hint of the actual events of the evening. There had been tambourine dancing by veiled girls, rich meats and sweets, and servants pouring wine and delivering food, all to ensure the feasters need only sit and eat. Thomas himself had gorged, urged on by a servant who, it seemed, tended only to him.

His stomach, overfull with unaccustomed delicacies, rumbled threats of rebellion. Even as he finally drifted into sleep, Thomas tossed fitfully.

His dreams, too, gave him little rest.

He stood upon a high hill, shrouded in gray mist. The mist swirled, then cleared, and rays of sunshine broke through from behind him, sunshine that lit an entire city across the deep valley, so that the beams of light danced golden and silver on the curved towers above whitened square houses that spread in all directions along the plateau of the mountain.

From the city walls emerged a dark figure, small with distance. The figure slowly moved closer, so that Thomas could see it was a large man, yet the man’s face was without feature.

The peace Thomas felt to behold this city of dreams began to disappear, and in its place emerged a trembling panic—panic that grew stronger as the figure approached, stronger as Thomas struggled to identify the man’s face.

Thomas moaned with a fear he could not explain.

“Thomas, my son!” the figure called. The man was now close enough so that Thomas could see the wrinkles of the dark cloth folded around him. But still, the face was featureless and gray.

“Thomas, my son!” the stranger called again. “Are you an Immortal?”

Thomas tried to reply, but he could not speak, his fear and panic so great. There was something so threatening about this stranger who claimed to be his father that Thomas tried to reach for the sword at his side, but his hands were powerless. He stood mute and frozen.

“Thomas! Are you an Immortal?”

The figure transformed into a dragon, yet before Thomas could scream, the dragon became Sir William, swirling out of the mists with a sword upraised.

Thomas tried to lift his arm against the blow, and as the sword came down, a truncated roar sounded from behind him, for the sword had struck a lion that now snarled defiance against death.

As Thomas turned back to thank Sir William, he caught the scent of perfume. The knight was not there. Instead, it was Katherine, her hair almost a halo of brightness from the sun. She reached for Thomas and he sobbed with relief.