The Lost Garden (The Lost Garden Trilogy Book 1) (12 page)

His house was littered with corpses. There was absolutely no way to explain any of this. He had to make short work of these last assailants and then he would bolt with Jess.

Just as he thought her name, he had a glimpse of her raising her sword high and striking down, severing the head of her opponent.

The others approached him again, heedless of the call of the sirens. They truly did need a leader, for they were helpless on their own.

The one type of vampire Anne Rice had yet to write about, he mused.

First, the darker-skinned one flashed forward and Knight moved to cut him off, swinging the wooden stick. Just as the first one attacked, he abruptly backed off. When he did so, the shorter one made his move in a coordinated manner.

Knight knew the game and knew what he had to do.

Using the length of the pole, he charged the second man, startling him. As if running with a pole vault, he drove the blunted wooden tip into the man’s forehead and abruptly stopped and swung the pole over his head. The darker-skinned one had been behind him and the sudden appearance of the pole had cracked his temple.

Both were out cold.

The sirens were growing louder.

A flash of movement at his side. Knight raised the fighting stick, turned his head, and saw that it was Jess. She had moved to the first of the unconscious Fallen, the short man with the goatee. She lifted his head and brought down the edge of her sword.

“Stop!” said Knight.

The sword edge stopped inches from the man’s throat. Jess blinked and turned to him. Her eyes were a little too wild. She was not the woman of his dreams. She was a warrior and a cold-hearted killer. “What?” she asked.

“You can’t just kill him like that.”

“He is a killer, Evan. He preys on humans. He feasts on the dead. He will be commanded to kill you later. He will be commanded to kill me later.”

“Then let him, or us, die on the battlefield.”

“You give honor to an animal? You give honor to a creature that would never return it?”

“I do.”

“Fine,” she said, and let go of her handful of hair. The man’s head
thudded
down on the wooden floor. Already a massive bump was appearing between his eyes.

The sirens had stopped outside of the house. Knight could see the flashing lights coming from the distant street. Knight’s property was gated. It would take the police a while to hop the fence and walk his half-mile driveway.

They both turned to Morina.

She was standing now over the body of the older man. She was also holding a gun, pointed at Knight’s heart.

“Now I will kill the Chosen One,” she said. Perhaps a little too insanely, thought Knight. “And be rewarded by Sulina, once she takes over paradise and the Tree of all Life.”

Jess and Knight both held their swords steady. Each was only a few feet from Morina. Knight knew that one of them, or the other, could take a swipe at Morina, but the other would risk being shot.

Jess said, “You kill Knight and I will simply bring him back from the dead. You forget I have the oil of life and you cannot kill the both of us. You pull the trigger and one or the other will be upon you, only to use my oil to bring the other back from the grave.”

Morina seemed to be staring at Jess’s neck, which was where the oil was secured. Morina looked briefly at the body between her feet. She seemed to want to bargain, but she had nothing to bargain with.

Knight had to admit that the prospect of being shot and then brought back from the dead with the help of the oil was a little unsettling at best.

“Um, Jess, can we talk about this first?”

“Not now, Evan.”

He stared at the gun, pointed unwavering at his chest. “Now is a perfect time to talk about it.”

She shushed him.

He didn’t appreciate being shushed when his own death was being talked about. Jess kept her stare level with Morina. “Go ahead and shoot him,” said Jess again. “I have the power to bring him back and you will be dead. It will accomplish nothing.”

“Jess,” he said. “I really have a problem with the scenario you are painting.”

She never turned her head. “Do you trust me, Evan?”

He was surprised by his answer. He didn’t even have to think about it. “I trust you more than anyone in the world.”

“Good, then shut up.”

“Point taken.”

Morina finally cocked her head, aware for the first time of the sirens and the cruisers parked out front. Whatever she was, she wasn’t like the other Fallen, having retained much of her personality and wits.

Behind them the other two were awakening and sitting up.

Jess said, “Take your two animals and be gone. The authorities have arrived. I give you this one opportunity to walk out of here alive.”

Morina thought for a brief second and then pocketed the gun inside her robe. The others were now on their feet, both a little wobbly. “Come,” she said.

Both looked at the room littered with the dead of their comrades. Knight was disturbed by the fact that the looks on their faces revealed something akin to hunger.

Dear God, he should have let Jess kill them. What the hell had he done? He had a sneaking suspicion that his foolish little act of chivalry would cost him later.

“Forget them,” hissed Morina. “We must leave immediately.”

The other two, like well-disciplined bloodhounds, looked up from their midnight snacks and moved across his living room to the shattered rear sliding glass door, where Morina was waiting for them.

Morina paused, as she stepped out onto the patio deck, as a crisp wind blew her leather trench coat back like a cape. “We shall meet again, Jessima IL Eve. When we do, do not be surprised if you are the last of your kind. Even now Sulina marches on your Eden and she brings with her a mighty force.”

“Tell Sulina the Fallen that you have failed. Jessima IL Eve shall return with the Chosen One.”

With that, Morina left and the two others obediently followed, now attached to their new leader.

“You know,” said Knight. “Leaving is not such a bad idea.”

“What do you propose?”

“I have a truck in the garage; we take it along the beach, ditch it and then get the hell out of Dodge.”

“Ah, an idiomatic reference to Dodge City,” said Jess, smiling. She had blood splatters all over her. In fact, blood was pooling everywhere from the corpses around his living room. He wondered if he would ever get the stench of the Fallen out of his home.

Or if he would ever return home again.

“Let me guess,” said Knight. “You’ve been to Dodge City. In its heyday. With saloons, gunfights, card games, and barroom brawls.”

She smiled, wiping her blade on the chest of the dead and then sheathing her sword. “What can I say?” she said. “Sometimes, even Cherubim need vacations.”

“C’mon,” said Knight, “Let’s get the hell out of here. You can tell me your Wyatt Earp stories later.”

“Do you have a passport?”

“Of course.”

“You’re going to need one where we’re going.”

End Book One

To be continued in:

Keepers of the Lost Garden

Available now at:

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~~~~~

Also available:

The Hammer of Thor

A Phoenix Quest Adventure #1

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Also available:

The Last Crusade

An Adventure Novel

by K.T. Tomb

(read on for a sample)

Chapter One

A lone messenger—carrying the standard of the German Emperor and wearing the Crusaders’ tunic—rode swiftly toward them, shouting, “
Coeur de Lion! Coeur de Lion!
”

“Halt!” King Richard called out and his order was relayed back to the warriors he led. When the messenger pulled up in a cloud of dust, he bowed briefly.

“Wolfgang! I watched you in the battle at Acre. Speak freely!” Richard said.

“Your Majesty, I have urgent news from near Jerusalem,” he said in French. “Is that where you travel, to fight Saladin again?”

Richard nodded. “Yes. This time, we shall finish him off. What is your news?”

“Our Holy Roman Emperor Frederick Barbarossa is dead. He and his horse drowned in a river.”

Richard’s heart sank. He took a deep breath of the hot desert wind and let it out again. “What of the German campaign?”

“It is ending. After the Emperor’s death, the Turks hit us hard. King Philip or King Leopold may take up Barbarossa’s campaign, but most of us, barely a thousand who are left, are going home to Germany.”

“As bad as that?” Richard asked, shocked that their numbers were so decimated.

“Worse, Majesty. There is plague breaking out among the troops on the road closer to Jerusalem. I was sent to warn you before you got close to the city.”

“Are you sure it is plague?” Richard asked, shocked even more. “Not siege sickness?”

“It is plague, Sire. I have seen the dead with their underarms burst open.”

“That is a sure sign of it. Well, this is unexpected, on all counts,” Richard murmured in chagrin. He had no immediate supply provisions to take the German campaign under his wing, even if he could stop them from fleeing. Nor did he wish to bring plague into his own troops.

“Unexpected, indeed, Majesty. Our hearts are broken from the loss of our leader, and our troops are withdrawing before more of us succumb to plague. I am ordered to officially announce that Jerusalem is yours, should you choose to take it without us, against Saladin. I know there were plans that we might again fight alongside you, but now, we cannot. It is a fearsome time for all Christians to head into Jerusalem.”

“Thank you for the news and the warning. Please relate my sorrow at the loss of Barbarossa to your countrymen.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty. I shall do so. Is there a return message about the English campaign?”

“We shall proceed onward toward Jerusalem, as planned,” Richard said firmly.

The blond man nodded, his face stoic. “Very well, Sire.”

Richard paused. “Will you join us, Wolfgang?”

“With respect, I cannot, Your Majesty. I am charged with my final duty of warning all those on this road of the growing plague in Jerusalem, and of Saladin’s men punishing the Christian pilgrims in heinous ways. Then I go to my ship bound for home. I have paid for my passage. If I fail to board the ship, word will be sent to my family that I am dead.”

“Carry out your duty, then. And Godspeed,” Richard said.

“Godspeed to you and your men as well.” Wolfgang galloped past them on his sweat-streaked horse.

Richard waved his hand and his army, once again, rode behind him toward Jerusalem. The men were quiet—no one dared to ask him anything. They rode in silence for quite some time as King Richard grew to feel more and more unwell.
Blasted ague
, he thought, shivering, even in the merciless heat.

Bearing the news of Barbarossa’s death and the subsequent loss of even fringe support from Germany, Richard the Lionheart didn’t know if it was his spirit or his body that suffered more. One thing he did know was that his enthusiasm for the Third Crusade seemed to wane like the high, thin clouds that promised rain but never delivered it. News of plague in Jerusalem was even more disturbing. And now with the German Emperor dead, Leopold and Philip would squabble for position and surely, at home, Richard’s brother, John, would make even more trouble than he already had. But it would not do to turn back. The King of England did not retreat.
Ever.

He was, however, tired of this arduous journey, and yet, there was still Jerusalem to conquer. He was set on taking the Holy City from Saladin and wanted it so badly that he could taste it. However, the scurvy and ague were definitely getting to him, as well as to the other men. When they had gone to Acre and fought Saladin, he and his men had feasted on quinces. That seemed like a long time ago. But then, everything in the desert seemed ancient and unchanging, except for the sky. It was sometimes difficult to keep track of the days, the weeks, the months.

Suddenly, his horse stumbled and went down on his knees. Nearly unseated because his legs weren’t in the stirrups, Richard leapt from the quivering horse that squealed in pain, his knees scraped from the rocks.

“Henri!” Richard called out sharply. “Right front foot. Perhaps a thorn.” He handed the reins to his personal groom, who hurried close, got the horse up and examined his feet and knees.

There was a cut on the front right hoof and Henri pulled a long thorn from it as the horse shuddered. He cleaned the wound with water, spread unguent and packed it with herbs. Then he tied a clean cloth over it to hold in the herbs. He let the horse’s leg down again and patted him.

“He didn’t break his knees, I hope?” Richard asked.

“Let me walk him and see the damage.” The groom walked the horse in a tight circle or two, concern creasing his face. “Your Majesty, his knees are only bruised and scraped, but his foot should rest tonight. If he is not galloped for a few days, he will recover.”

“I hope so. I am fond of him and I should hate to think of eating another horse gone lame.”

The groom looked horrified. “No, Majesty.” He paused. “My deepest apologies, but I have no fresh horse for you. The only horses left are broken-down nags seized from our slaughtered enemies, packhorses and those otherwise under harness, plus a few small donkeys that are not fit for a king.”

“It simply would not do for me to arrive in Jerusalem on the back of a donkey,” Richard said. “Some pilgrims might think I was mocking our Lord.”

The groom half smiled. “No one would dare think that of you, Your Majesty. But our horses do suffer so in this harsh climate and under these road conditions. Perhaps we can obtain you a fine Arabian?”

Richard rolled his eyes at the very thought. “It seems almost treasonous to consider riding one of
their
blooded horses in
our
campaign.”

“Please forget I suggested it, Sire,” Henri replied, contrite.

Brooding and highly frustrated because his horse was temporarily lame, Richard walked now with a feverish headache beginning; his soldiers and advisors dismounted and followed at a respectful distance. Henri walked his limping horse behind him. Everyone’s armor and weapons clinked and clanked. Surely, the enemy could hear them coming for many leagues.

Richard realized that he had the last European horse still under saddle. Perhaps it was time to acquire some blooded Arabians. He thought that would look improper, though, to ride an Arabian into battle. Things were not looking optimistic for the English army when the King’s last fine horse was out of service. However, there was only so far that one could possibly walk in armor and chain mail in the hot sun.

Richard sighed heavily. Up on the horse, at least there had been a slight breeze. Down here, walking on the road, the stench of blood and filth of his men mixed with the cloying scent of death, which was an odor that always seemed to linger in his nostrils for days after a battle.

When Richard could walk no further—his fine boots were impractical for walking any real distance—he finally gave up for the day, grunted and called out, “Make camp!”

The command was echoed back to the ranks with undisguised joy. If the King walked, everyone walked…and no one liked walking to Jerusalem. Not even the pilgrims.
If they said they enjoyed the journey, well, they were lying
, Richard thought, gritting his teeth against the unexpected march over the cobbled road and trying to be patient while his quarters were prepared.

There seemed to be relief among the men that they were even stopping before starlight. Richard really did not like to make camp. He liked to try to get as far as possible every day and sometimes they even rode their horses at night, if there was a full moon. His troop’s fast progress through the Holy Land was twice the speed of the troops of the other Crusader kings, the loss of horseflesh notwithstanding.

He kicked a rock and hurt his toe through his boot. This evening, his body ached with exhaustion and his mind was frustrated at how long it was taking to even get to Jerusalem, let alone get positioned to fight Saladin again. He hoped they wouldn’t all be dead of hunger, heat and thirst before they even got to do battle there. One thing was for certain. This time, Richard wanted the satisfaction of Saladin’s head on a pike and his body hanging from the reared gibbets that he liked to display in camp just to keep up the men’s enthusiasm and fighting spirits for one bloody battle after another. Richard just needed a healthy horse under him to conquer Jerusalem and take it from his nemesis, Saladin. They took turns chasing each other.

As the camp took shape, his men scurried to and fro, making his royal quarters rise from the ground, attending to horses and removing armor. Henri got Richard’s horse off his feet to reduce the swelling of his foot injury. He lay down next to the horse on the ground, stroking him and speaking softly in his ear.

As soon as Richard’s tent was ready, he walked into it, and took off his hot helmet and armor with help from his mute valet who disappeared afterward, as he always did. The burly giant, whom Richard called Andre, just because no one else under his command had the name, had escaped from one of Saladin’s slave traders after a battle during which he had been captured. Andre had come to Richard with his tongue cut out, unable to even say his own name, let alone write it—he was completely illiterate though strong as an ox and had a willingness to please that won Richard over. Andre could, however, draw very well, and was able to tell his story that way, and relate that Saladin killed some of the captured Crusaders, but always sold the strongest ones as slaves. It was one of the ways in which Saladin kept his empire thriving.

Richard kicked off his boots, but lay down otherwise fully dressed on the cot that was always transported for him in a donkey cart because it was deemed unseemly for the King of England to sleep directly upon the ground. Every night that they made camp, Andre would remove the king’s cot and other furnishings for his tent and arrange them in exactly the way that Richard liked. It was a royal luxury to have a furnished tent and he honestly didn’t know how the men who slept in the open could bear it.

One hand rested on his broadsword, and the other clenched a rosary—though he was too distraught to pray. He held the rosary like a talisman, as if it could protect him in his sleep. So far, it had.

Richard could hear the soft talking of the men and wood snapping as they broke branches of dried thorn bushes and made small fires to prepare tea and keep themselves warm in the growing clear desert night.

Richard suddenly shivered, hoping that he wasn’t becoming ill. He drew his smelly cloak to his chin when the orphaned Kurdish boy, a camp follower, came in with strips of dried, salted oryx meat and a measure of wrinkled olives wrapped in a square of cloth. He also brought a steaming cup of what did not even remotely pass for English tea, which was about the only thing that Richard liked about England. Nay, the tea was brewed from a local herb that was so bitter that it almost made him gag, but at least it masked the foul taste of the water decanted from the rancid skins they carried. Tonight, there was honey for the tea. He was thankful for it.

“Your Majesty, I have brought food,” the boy whispered softly in the French that he’d been learning. He spoke French because Richard did not speak English, even though he was the King of England. Richard certainly didn’t speak any of the Arabic dialects.

“Good evening, Kako,” Richard said. “How do you fare?”

“I am well, Sire. I rode for part of the day on Andre’s donkey cart. There was room for me on it today, as the supplies are lessening.”

“A keen observation,” Richard replied.

“Thank you. Do you want me to taste your food before I leave it?” Kako lit a candle in the tent.

“Yes, Kako,” Richard said. “Proceed.”

The boy sniffed and ate small amounts of the meat and olives and took a sip or two of the tea.

“How is it?” Richard asked. He knew he should be hungry but he wasn’t.

“Salty,” the boy said. “It makes me even thirstier. It is good food, though, and I am glad to be your food taster. For weeks, you have kept me from going hungry.”

“As well, you have kept me alive,” Richard said. “A fair trade, I would say.”

“Would anyone really poison their own king?” Kako asked.

“It’s happened many times throughout history that kings and other nobles have been poisoned by their food. Sometimes accidentally, and sometimes, with deadly intent,” Richard said. “It is actually quite common for kings to be poisoned by cowardly usurpers and various enemies.” He paused. “Have a little more food, my dear boy.”