The Djinn (10 page)

Gerard’s face
reddened, but he offered no response. He wheeled around to the door, inserted
the oversized metal key, and turned the latch. He had to pull hard on the door
to swing it open, breaking off bits of rust that encrusted it.

“You’ve got ten
minutes. No more,” he said as he spun around and skulked out of the dungeon.
The door clanged shut around the corner.

Tufic
stepped into Samuel’s cell and crouched down close to
him. A great white smile broke out across the Saracen physician’s swarthy face
as he inspected the bruises and gashes across the squire’s forehead.

“Good,” he
said. “There doesn’t seem to be any serious damage to you. How do you feel?”

Samuel felt
oddly comforted by the physician’s presence. He couldn’t figure out why. He had
only met the doctor a handful of times—the last being in Gregory’s tunnels. His
gentle hands had mended him well after his encounter with the strange
hashshashin that accompanied the baron’s Moslem friend. Somehow, down deep, he
knew that this was a good man and his warm smile and soothing voice expelled
the doubts he had been harboring.

“I’m fine, sir.
Just a bit uncomfortable—oh, and a bit hungry too, if you
understand my meaning.”

Tufic
laughed. “Yes, I can imagine the food here isn’t very
appealing.” He rummaged through the folds of his tunic and produced the largest
fig Samuel had ever seen. “Here you go, lad. Eat up.”

Samuel grabbed
the luscious fruit and bit down deep—its juices exploding into the back of his
throat. He didn’t think he’d ever tasted anything so good in his entire life. As
he relished every savory morsel,
Tufic
stood, crept
to the edge of the cell, and peered around the corner. As he turned back to
face the squire, who was still gnawing enraptured on the fruit, he placed a
finger to his lips and crouched down again at Samuel’s side.

“Now listen to
me, lad,” he said in a hushed tone. “I haven’t much time. A mutual friend has
sent me to tell you to be prepared to flee this place at a moment’s notice.”

Samuel stopped
chewing. “Mutual friend?” he
asked,
pieces of fig
spewing out of his mouth.

“Yes. You know
who I mean. He’s coming soon. He will free you. When he does, you must use this
map…go immediately to the place that is marked,”
Tufic
said as he produced a small piece of cloth with markings that resembled a map
from his robe and handed it to Samuel. “Do not stop for anything or anyone.
Just go. Once you are there, all will be made clear.”

The squire
swallowed the last bit of fruit in his mouth as best he could. He tentatively
took the cloth map, and stared at it without saying a word. The “x” marking was
near the Jordan River, about ten miles south of Jerusalem. No one lived out
there but nomads and…oh!

Samuel slowly
looked up at the physician. “Are…are you him? I won’t tell anyone. I didn’t
tell that Gerard anything. You can trust me,” he said, beaming from ear to ear.
“You really can, you know.”

Tufic
returned the smile and clapped his hand on the
squire’s shoulder. “I know I can trust you, lad. But for now, just do as I say.
Be ready to move. And when the time comes, run. And keep the map hidden
somehow.”

“Don’t worry. I
know exactly where I can hide it. Gerard will never find it!”

“Good lad. Now,
I’ve got to leave. But don’t worry. We’ll see one another again very soon.”

The physician
stood and looked down at the young squire, confined in cold rusted chains.

“I really am
proud of you, lad. Our friend is, too,” he said with a wink as he turned and
walked around the corner to the large metal door that led to the outside world.
“Don’t worry, Samuel. Soon, all will be well.”

As the doctor’s
footfalls echoed out of the dungeon corridors, Samuel could not help but say a
prayer of thanksgiving as a strange calm settled on him like a warm down
blanket in the cold of night. He felt completely at peace. He knew without
doubt that all, soon, would indeed be well.

Gregory's rage
roiled inside his gut as he stormed through the dank, narrow hallways of the
palace dungeon. Things were rapidly spinning out of control. Gerard's
incompetence had cost him dearly. The loss of Solomon's ring to the Djinn was a
major setback. Possibly even an insurmountable one. Without the ring's power,
he was now powerless to revive the twelve golem warriors that lay dormant
within the subterranean vault underneath the city.

Of course, that
wasn't the worst part. The second phase of his plan…the part that would assure
his own status of emperor…would be completely futile. He'd heard rumors that
there might still be a way to reanimate the golems without the ring, but it
would be impossible to craft an army of new ones.

Fortunately,
the baron had not yet disposed of the one person who might provide the key to
rectifying his dilemma. If anyone knew a way to attain his goals without
Solomon's
Seal
, it would be the Essene nomad he held
prisoner within these dungeon walls. He would force the man to reveal his
secrets and his plan would be salvaged from ruin.
 

Gregory heard
the screams before he even rounded the corner to where the prisoner's cell was.
The mercenary, eager to rectify his failure before the baron could devise a way
to punish him adequately, had already begun the interrogation process. He
shuddered to think of what atrocities Gerard had planned for
Ibrihim
this time. After the last rat-infested
interrogation, it was an absolute miracle the nomad was even able to speak
coherently.

As the baron
approached the cell, a grim-faced guard opened the gate to let him pass. One
step through the threshold and Gregory reeled from the horrid stench that
greeted him. He glanced around the room to see the prisoner hanging two feet
off the floor by chains bound tight around his wrists. His shoulders and arms
were stretched to an almost implausible length. What was left of the man's
face, after the rats’ feast a few days earlier, was marred by caked blood,
feces, and all manner of ungodly things. His emaciated chest heaved for breath
as Gerard slammed a fist into his distended gut.

As soon as the
mercenary sensed the baron's presence in the room, he stopped and turned toward
his employer.

"I believe
he's ready to talk," Gerard said with a growl. "I don't think we'll
have as much difficulty with him this time."

The baron
stalked over to the suspended prisoner, reached out a hand, and forced the
nomad’s chin up so that he could look into the man’s eyes.

“Is this true,
Ibrihim
?” Gregory asked with a smile. “Can we dispense with
all this unpleasantness? All I need are a few answers. It’s as simple as that.
You’ve already betrayed your tribe by revealing their location to me. What is a
little more information going to hurt between friends?”

The Essene
stared back at Gregory with dead eyes. All hope was gone from them. Through the
mercenary’s previous torture,
Ibrihim
had given up
his people and their sacred trust. He’d shown Gerard exactly where they would be
on a map and had even revealed the secrets of the Seal. The baron knew that
this man truly had nothing else to live for.

When the
prisoner sighed, Gregory knew his assessment had been correct.

“All right,”
Ibrihim
said, wriggling his wrists to ease the tension in
his iron shackles. “What would you like to know?”

The baron
weighed his next few words carefully. After all, despair was a powerful
motivator. If the Essene discovered that Gregory’s assault on his village had
been unsuccessful…if he learned that his people were still safe and that he’d
been unable to acquire Solomon’s ring…well, Gregory could not allow that to
happen.

The baron
cleared his throat. “Tell me…these golems that I’ve discovered. They’re inert.
Inanimate.
If someone were to stumble upon them without the
Seal, would there be any way to activate them?
To bind them
to their will?”

The nomad
pondered this for several seconds in silence. He shifted his weight to one leg,
then back to the other in a futile attempt to make himself more comfortable.

“That would be
a very difficult thing to do indeed,”
Ibrihim
finally
spoke. Gregory thought he caught the slightest trace of a smile play across his
lips and he wondered if he’d revealed too much with his question. “Granted, the
ring itself isn’t essential to reviving these creatures. After all, the
Breath of God
was sent into them by the
power of the ring when they were first created. So on the one hand, a person
wouldn’t need it to animate them. They’d simply need to wake them up.” The
nomad coughed and a gelatinous string of blood spewed from his lips. “I
thirst.”

Gregory forced
the irritation at the interruption away and nodded to Gerard. The mercenary
strode across the cell, plunged a wooden cup into a vat of water and brought it
over to their prisoner.

“You may quench
your
thirst
after.”

Ibrihim
nodded his understanding and continued with a dry,
ragged voice. “Your issue with the existing golems is not bringing them back to
life, but rather wresting control from their creator.”

“But the wife
of Solomon has been dead thousands of years. Surely her influence on them is no
more.”

The Essene
shook his head. “It matters not how long she’s lain in the grave. She created
them and gave them instructions they never fulfilled. The moment they are
raised, they will resume their dark task with dispassionate efficiency.” He
paused again for another coughing fit,
then
continued.
“It won’t matter that you are the one who revived them. They recognize only one
voice.
Rakeesha’s
.
As far as I know, there is only one way to establish your
control over them.”

“The ring?”

“The Seal is
only needed to create new golems. It cannot establish control over the golems
already created.” The prisoner shook his head once more. “No, if that was the
case, would Solomon himself not have used it to bring their reign of terror to
an end?”

“Then how?”

“As I said
before, it’s no easy matter. The way to revive them into your own mastery is a
dark path. One that Solomon himself refused to take, though he no doubt knew he
could do it.”

Gregory growled
with frustration. “Just spit it out, man!”

“Blood.”
The nomad bowed his head as he said the word, as if
resigning himself to a nightmarish fate. “The creatures will awaken to the
blood of a sacrifice.
A human sacrifice.”

The room was
silent for several heartbeats until Gerard spoke up.

“Then we have
no problem. We can easily sacrifice the prisoner. Kill two birds with one
stone, so to speak,” he said with a hyena-like grin.

“And you will
doom yourselves,” the nomad said stoically. “True, my blood would awaken them,
but it wouldn’t give you power over them. For that, the sacrifice would have to
be special. Dangerous.”

“What do you
mean? Dangerous?” Gregory asked, a lump swelling in his throat.

“The sacrifice
would have to be a true gamble. High risk,”
Ibrihim
said, a slight smile returning to his nightmarish face. “If you want to have
power over the golems, then you must first sacrifice a person who has power
over you.”

The baron
stared at
Ibrihim
for several seconds, unsure of what
to say or do next. The revelation had nearly knocked the wind from his lungs.
There were not many within the
Outremer
who could claim authority over him. Not many to choose for this sacrifice as
the Essene described. And no matter who he chose, it would indeed be a most
dangerous affair. If the ritual did not work, he would be left
impotent…defenseless. If he chose to go down this path, there truly could be no
turning back.

Gregory looked
over at Gerard and nodded. “Loosen our guest’s bindings. See to it that he is
fed and comfortable for his service to us this day.”

The mercenary
gave him a puzzled expression.
“Sir?
I don’t
understand.”

“It’s simple,
Captain. Our friend
Ibrihim
will need his strength if
he’s going to help us with the rites necessary to awaken the golems. I want him
as content as we can possibly make him.”

The nomad
looked up at his captor, his eyes wide. “Help you?
With the
ritual?
I never said anything about helping you kill another man.”

The baron, who
had already decided on the perfect candidate for the sacrifice, smiled broadly.
“Of course,” he said, as turned around and headed toward the cell doors. He had
many preparations to make before his dinner meeting with Monsignor Tertius and
Al-Dula later that evening. “It is, after all, the means to your own freedom.”

****

“Enough, Gregory!”
The Vatican priest slammed his fist
against Gregory’s oak dining table. Mugs of wine and ale tumbled over, their
contents cascading over the edge.
If Gregory had been a
superstitious man, or even remotely religious, he would have believed Monsignor
Tertius capable of bringing down fire from heaven to consume him.
As it
was, the little priest’s outrage was a mere tickle in the back of the baron’s
throat. “His Grace will not stand for it. It’s witchcraft of the highest order.
You cannot seriously be contemplating this.”

“Don’t listen
to him!” shouted Al-Dula, equally enraged. “We had a deal, Baron De
L’Ombre
. Do not forget it. Those creatures in that vault
would give me the edge I need to overthrow Saladin once and for all…to establish
my caliphate as is my birthright. I don’t care how much your Pontiff will
disapprove!”

“Blasphemy!”
Tertius roared. “Lord Gregory, do you hear the
foul poison your heathen guest is spewing?”

Gregory’s smile
never faded as he sauntered through his dining hall, hands clasped behind his
back, as if in deep thought.
The fools.
How simple
minded…how short sighted were these men he’d invited into his confidence.
Actually, neither would be pleased with what he truly planned for Solomon’s
golems. He would undoubtedly be betraying both men before this affair was over.

The Holy See
had commissioned this entire expedition. The Pope, seeking a means to increase
his own floundering influence among the nobles, had nearly tripped on his own
robes to provide the finances for Gregory’s excavation when he’d heard those
silly stones he was so obsessed with might still be underneath Jerusalem.

Al-Dula,
likewise, had been only too eager to lend his own unique resources to the
venture.

Neither, of
course, would receive what had been promised. Once Gregory came into the
possession of the book and reacquired Solomon’s elusive ring, he would no
longer have need of these contemptuous alliances he’d forged. He’d have little
need of anything else from that point on, actually. After all, with an entire
army of clay automatons at his beck and call, no one on earth would be able to
oppose him—lose one soldier, and he need only sculpt another from the dirt of
the ground.

Of course, for
now, it was essential he keep at least one of his allies happy. The other would
not leave this dining hall a happy man in the slightest, but nothing could be
done about it. In order for his plans to succeed, he would need to sever all
ties to one of them. The other would soon join his predecessor and Gregory
would finally be able to savor the sweet fragrance of ultimate victory.

Spinning around
to face his challengers, his smile broadened. “Gentlemen, gentlemen…I assure
you…I have considered every possibility in this matter. It is the only way for
his Grace and for you, Al-Dula, to embrace what has been sought for so long.
Security here in the
Outremer
.”

“His Holiness
couldn’t care less about this wretched wasteland or its security, Gregory,”
said Tertius. “He sent you here for one purpose. To find the holy relics that
would establish
his
own
security among the gentry. You have failed him miserably and you try to make up
for it by bringing me these…these abominations?”

“Abominations?
Abominations! Oh, trust me Tertius, these
creatures represent the true nature of the gods,” Gregory said, his smile
suddenly wavering with irritation.
“Mankind finally breaking
away from the shackles of religion and realizing their own, true potential.
The creation of life itself!”

The priest
moved around the table and squared up against Gregory. One long, thin finger
prodded the baron against his chest.

“You dare to
blaspheme against your God? Such words could have you excommunicated from the
Church. We’ve long known about, and consequentially, tolerated your atheism.
But make no mistake…we have the power to strip you of your title, land, and
influence. Be mindful of your next few words, Baron.”

Gregory looked
down at the priest’s finger, still pressed against his chest,
then
gently brushed it aside with a smile.

“Very well.
Let me try to choose my next few words as
carefully as I can, then,” he said, his face suddenly turning frigid.
“Guards.
Arrest him.”

Instantly, the
six mercenaries hovering in each corner of the room converged on Tertius and
threw him to the floor. Iron shackles appeared as if from nowhere and slid over
the priest’s wrists in a frenzy of motion.

“What? What is
the meaning of this?” Monsignor Tertius howled
,
his
face planted firmly on the stone floor. “Release me at once!”