The Codex Lacrimae (3 page)

“Absolutely not,
Ima
! They're Christians!” Jacob exclaimed.

“As might be that army,” Ibn-Khaldun qualified, nodding to the distant smudge on the horizon. “At least the Christians in the castle I know. Besides, I follow the teachings of Muhammad, and there are others like me, as well as Hebrews within that fortress. It's like a small city. Even Crusaders can't live long in these parts without adopting many of the region's customs. You and your caravan will all be welcome. Trust me.”

The boy's eyes flicked from the horizon to the castle and back to the horizon again. “
Imam
,
we could…no.” He lowered his eyes as if seeking an answer to the quandary from the ground itself. “Oh, very well.” He inhaled deeply. “We're again in your debt, and will accept your kind invitation.”

Ibn-Khaldun's eyebrows rose at that, pleasantly surprised. He nodded and moved to recover his camel.

“Master,” Jacob said, “I'll go tell Ghannen of the armies and return his sword. There are only twenty carts in the caravan, and the animals will be ready. They'll be there by the time you and Ima reach the bottom of the mountain.”

“Very well,” Ibn-Khaldun agreed, impressed by the boy's efficiency.

Jacob gave a look to his mother and when she nodded with a shooing motion of her hand, he ran off down the trail.

As he helped Rebecca mount her camel, Ibn-Khaldun tried to ignore the whispers in his mind that returned almost immediately upon his settling into his own linen-lined saddle, the words spoken softly but with an almost overwhelming urgency that made him want to do nothing but flip open the saddlebags behind him and take the
thing
out. If he just took it for himself, the voices told him, so very many things could be made right. So many losses undone. So many years regained....

Jacob rejoined them sooner than expected, telling the two adults that Ghannen had already begun to move the caravan and would meet them on the valley road.

Grateful for the company on this leg of his journey, Ibn-Khaldun reflected on the last time he'd been around other people: a month ago, with his own family of bedouin traders in the heart of the Nafud Desert, or “Empty Quarter.”

That stay had been special for Ibn-Khaldun because he'd been able to spend some time with his son, Thaqib, who was the second-in-command to Khalil (the
sheikh
who led the tribe). Khalil was a man of great charisma who was married to Ibn-Khaldun's daughter, Fatima. His adult children and son-in-law led a very successful camel caravan, participating in an overland trade that reached far eastwards into Persia.

When he'd been with them, he'd fought an overwhelming temptation to speak with them — particularly Fatima — but he couldn't risk endangering his family.

Indeed, how
could
he tell anyone, when he still didn't know how he was going to relate the news about his strange package to Ríg? He'd momentarily wanted to share his mind with Fatima. She'd always been able to predict future events long before they happened — so long as all the facts were in front of her — and she also knew Ríg as a friend because of the many years she'd spent visiting the Krak. But, Fatima would have told him to give the saddlebag to her or Thaqib, and insisted that he let one of them complete the delivery so the scholar could rest with the
bedouin
.

His response then remained the same as now:
No, I've got to finish this myself. Ríg's just a boy. He'll need some kind of guidance with this…thing.

So, he'd left them full of questions, saying only that he was urgently needed back at the Krak. Reluctantly, Fatima and Thaqib let him go, taking some comfort in the fact that the citadel offered at least the consolation that Ibn-Khaldun's other son — an adopted Christian named Marcus — still lived within its walls.

Ibn-Khaldun wasn't a fool. He knew that getting the thing in the saddlebag to Rig was only half the battle. Solving its mystery would harshly test a friendship with his best student, and the entire matter deeply troubled him. Even though a westerner, Ríg had become as much of a son to Ibn-Khaldun as either Marcus or Thaqib.

However, wherever the hunters came from, their menace was real. They'd made four attempts on the Muslim scholar's life in their half-year chase. Each of Ibn-Khaldun's escapes was narrower than the previous one, and the latest assault in the city of Shuqrah had almost killed the old man. He'd badly injured his left knee when he fell while tipping a fruit cart, but the effort had wrenched something in his side that was still not fully right.

The trio finally closed in on the caravan, bringing Ibn-Khaldun's thoughts back to the present. The drivers of its rearmost carts hailed Jacob and Rebecca.

“Now, let's make haste and get me introduced to this Ghannen,” Ibn-Khaldun urged. “I've not journeyed seven hundred leagues to get caught at my front door!”

As Ibn-Khaldun and his companions joined the small caravan at the first switchback road leading up to the front gate, for the first time in six months he didn't look back over his shoulder.

The oversight meant that he missed seeing two figures watch his progress from the rocky promontory and grove of terebinth trees that he and his companions had departed only a brief while ago.

Nor, of course, from his position on the slanting roadway could Ibn-Khaldun see the vast darkness of a larger, second army that followed a short distance behind the watchers.

Chapter 2

A Quarry Run to Ground

The two men rode great white Arabian stallions, restraining the wild-eyed and whinnying beasts from pursuing Ibn-Khaldun as the caravan made its way up switchback roads to the Krak des Chevaliers.

“Whether alone or with those merchants, the old man will reach Santini, Morpeth,” the larger of the two riders commented. “A member of that family line is in the castle. I can
feel
it now that we're this close to him.”

A man of fair complexion, Farbauti wore a full golden beard and long hair bound by leather strips that reached past his shoulders. Both men seemed unaffected by the heat, even though they wore similar black Hospitaller cloaks over tunics and breeches, with the bulks of their gigantic frames accented by chain-mail ringlets visible at collars and wrists.

“
Ja
,
Farbauti. Finally,” Morpeth agreed, leaning forward and peering at the fortress whose walls presented an intimidating sight. He was the younger of the two men, his face clean-shaven and his blond hair cropped short. “Pathetic that
we're
the ones who have to correct a mistake that never should've carried the Codex this far away. It's been a long time, even as we reckon such things, but now all is as it should be.”

“Do you truly feel that way, Morpeth? Santini's awakening of the Codex Lacrimae will mean the beginning of the end game, and the chances of either of us ever holding it for our own have become slim to none.”

Morpeth looked briefly at the other man, and then returned his gaze to the Krak des Chevaliers resting on the mountain, Hisn al-Akrad.

“We weren't ever meant to hold it, nor any other artifact, Farbauti,” Morpeth said musingly, as he assessed the citadel defenses. “That's fine with me. I've no use for such things. We knew the rules, and swore the Oath. I'm just pleased that Ibn-Khaldun's performed as predicted.” He adjusted a brace on his forearm and squinted at the castle. “No, it's enough for me to know that Saladin's and Fafnir's armies are converging here.”

“Let's not get overconfident,” Farbauti cautioned, “warfare's first casualty is predictability. Still, I think we've done all the preparation we can.” He stretched. “Whatever happens, we need to be efficient, Morpeth. There are matters that need tending in Svartalfheim and Nidaveller.”

“We don't need to go over that ground again,” Morpeth said, his tone insistent. “I told you earlier, we'll make the dwarves see the error of their ways.”

“I don't like leaving such important things to chance,” Farbauti grimaced. He inhaled deeply, adjusting himself on the horse. “I fear that we've spent so much time on the Codex Lacrimae that events might outpace our plans.”

“Worry not, old friend,” Morpeth said. “I've been setting a snare for Santini the last couple days if he happens to elude us after awakening the Codex. I've seen him in a glade where a madman roams. I know the place, and if the madman is who I think it is, he could serve as both a foil to the Codex Wielder and begin the doom of both Dark Elves and dwarves.”

“You've foreseen the Codex Wielder in a glade? In Svartalfheim?” Suspicion marked Farbauti's words and glance. “I've seen nothing of this in the fires. If all goes to plan, Morpeth, Santini won't be gone from here on Midgard for any meaningful time before we take the book from him. How could he be in the forests of the Dark Elves?”

“It's the Sight,” Morpeth shrugged in apparent commiseration. “Perhaps it's showing me one thing, and you another. It can't hurt the Hunt to have too another contingency.” He frowned as his eyes turned inward, then nodded confirmation. “
Ja
,
it's still the same, Farbauti. I've seen the same vision five times — I'm getting sick of Santini's pretty face. Does it help settle your mind if I tell you I think that the dwarf who will do our work is Dietrich the Mad?”

“Ah,” Farbauti laughed, “now I understand. Well done, Morpeth. Besides being an Arch-Mage, Dietrich holds no love for
any
Codex Wielder. Very well done. We're covered, then?”

“As well as might be done at this point. There is —” Morpeth paused, started to speak again, and then pressed his lips together.

“There is,
was
?”

“The Sight,” Morpeth said. “It showed me more. Besides Dietrich in the glade, there were others present whose features I can't discern.
Und
,
I've had visions of...other places. Places that should no longer be accessible in the Nine Worlds.”

“Speak plainly, Morpeth,” Farbauti snapped. “Tell me what you saw, and we'll adjust the plan as we've done before.”

“That's just it,” Morpeth said, “there's no way to counter this kind of vision, because it's impossible. The realm doesn't exist anymore.”

“
Was ist das
?” Farbauti insisted.

“Annen Verden.”

Farbauti recoiled as if his friend had slapped him.

“There's no doubt, no possibility that you're seeing something else?”

“Farbauti, it was the Otherworld, and, worse, on another front I fear that what we're doing might somehow bring back Veröld Martröđ.”

“Morpeth, you might as well tell me that Mogthrasir has risen from the dead as believe the Nightmare Realm is come again.”

Morpeth smiled. “In giving a voice to my fears, it does seem unlikely. But, there it is, those are the dreams I've been having.”

“Annen Verden…,” Farbauti murmured, returning his attention to the great castle before them. “What a place to hunt that would be. No, no. This kind of vision must be related to our quest for the codex magic. It makes sense. The Book of Tears was the last and most powerful to be bound, and Taliesin used it to trap Veröld Martröđ in Annen Verden before the artifacts were lost.”

Silence fell for a long moment, and then he made a decision. “We can't change our plans now. We'll move forward under the assumption that these dreams come from the stirring of the Codex Lacrimae. It's logical that those with Sight would see visions of its last moments in the Nine Worlds. Until we see evidence of Veröld Martröđ's return, we can't hunt him. He's the Lord of Nightmare, and would have us jumping at every shadow if we try to anticipate him. If he's returned, we'll let him make himself known, then run him to ground.”

“But, like Dietrich with the Sampo,” Morpeth said warningly, “if Martröđ returns, he might interfere with our plans for the Codex. There were many forces in the Elder Days that sought its power.”

“Let any who'd dare vie with us for it!” Farbauti grinned. “We're forewarned, thanks to your dreams, Morpeth. No, let's stay the course. We're as prepared as we can be, old friend.”

“Thank you, Milord. These dreams may just be excitement for the end of the chase.”

Farbauti nodded, the matter settled for the moment, and turned his gaze southward, staring for a long while at the rising dust cloud that canvassed almost the entire horizon.

An army marched within the approaching maelstrom, its forces instigated by his and Morpeth's efforts. During negotiations with the commanders of the two armies, they'd let Ibn-Khaldun continue to race toward the Krak, running the
sufi
mystic to ground at this moment when the crusader castle would be surrounded by a two-pronged siege of their design.

All Ibn-Khaldun had to do now was deliver the Codex Lacrimae to the youngest member of the Santini family, and then the Huntsmen could complete the quest they'd begun so long ago.