The Djinn (11 page)

The baron’s
smug grin returned as he crouched down to meet the baffled priest’s
gaze
. “I’m sorry,
Tertius
. I’m
afraid I’m going to have
forego
our rather tenuous
partnership. But have no fear. Your role in this historic endeavor isn’t
over…and to be honest, it is one of the greatest
importance
.
Trust me. You’ll be remembered for years to come for the…sacrifice…you’re about
to make.” He stood up, dusted his robes off,
then
looked at Gerard. “You can’t take him to the dungeon. No one must know what
we’ve done until the rites are performed.”

“I’ll take him
to the
safehouse
near the Jaffa Gate. He should be
safe from prying eyes there,” the mercenary captain said. And without another
word, the priest was led from the room.

Al-Dula stared
in disbelief at his host. “What is going on?”

The baron waved
the question off with the flick of the wrist.
“Nothing for
you to worry about.
A necessary evil, I assure you. And one that
benefits you greatly, I might add.”

The Saracen
glanced over at his hashshashin cleric, who stood motionless against the
southern wall of the room, then turned back to Gregory. His thick, dark fingers
stroked the course hairs of his beard nervously. “I’m not sure I like that
answer very much. You betray the Vatican now. How do I know I can trust you not
to do the same with me when it is convenient?”

Gregory was
growing weary of the entire discussion. If not for the silent figure of Emir,
the baron would have physically removed the obstinate Saracen from his
presence. As things were, Lord Gregory forced on the best smile he could muster
and walked over to Al-Dula.

“My dear
friend, the truth of the matter is…you can’t. But the other side of that same
truth is that you really have no choice. Soon, a golem army will be mine to
command and I
will
use them how I see
fit. If you wish to benefit from this, you will simply have to learn to trust
me.”

The Saracen’s
scowl was sharper than any sword. He hadn’t liked that answer at all. Good. Let
him fret. He was right not to trust the baron. After all, Gregory De
L’Ombre
had no intention of allowing any Caliph to rule
once he had his army.

Al-
Dula’s
feet crunched on the pebbled walkway that led from
Gregory’s chateau; his face a mask of stoic calm despite the rage simmering
inside from the meeting he’d just had with the baron.

“So, Emir, do
you know what you must do?” asked the Saracen to his silent companion as they
strode onto the darkened streets of the northern sector of Jerusalem.

“Of course, my lord.”

“The Westerner
cannot be allowed to have his army.”

The
hashshashin, arms folded in front of him, looked up into the night sky. There
was no moon. No source of light at all, but Al-Dula could swear that Emir’s
lithe frame cast a dark shadow along the ground. A shiver rippled down his
back.

“As I said…I
know what must be done,” Emir said.

“Good.
Very good.”

Gregory was a
fool among Western fools. His ambitions ate away at the veneer he worked so
tirelessly to project—he was as transparent as Spanish glass. Al-Dula had no
intentions of keeping his end of the bargain with the baron. He’d rather die
than to allow that pompous jackal to succeed with his schemes.

“And what of
this
djinn
, Emir? What shall we do
about this?”

The hashshashin
stopped walking and turned to Abdul
ibn
Al-Dula. His
eyes burned with savage intensity.

“Be careful, my
lord,” Emir hissed, “of speaking of this creature so freely. The
djinni
are
not to be taken lightly. They are spirits—both good and evil—with powers beyond
anything we can comprehend.”

“Surely, you
don’t believe such tales? You’re a holy man.”

“It is because
I am a ‘holy man,’ as you say, that I do take such stories seriously.”

The Saracen had
to admit the tales of
this
djinn’s
exploits had rattled him. Such myths were engrained in the minds of all those
who follow the Prophet. The
djinni
and their kin had
been around for as long as there was life—intervening in the history of mankind
for better or ill. As Al-Dula had grown up, such stories were forgotten or
discounted as legends. But now he wasn’t so sure. The things they said about
the creature…he shuddered at the thought.

“Still,”
Al-Dula continued, “if this spirit creature interferes, what can be done?”

The hashshashin
continued walking, moving in front of the Saracen. It was his way of showing
the warlord that he was by no means Emir’s superior.

“There are
ways…ways of dealing with such creatures.”

“Like?”

“The Ring of
Aandaleeb is said to have the power to bind a spirit to the wearer’s will.”

“The same ring
that Gregory is even now searching for? The one with Solomon’s Seal embossed on
it?”

Emir simply
nodded in answer.

“Good. Then we
know where to begin,” the would-be Caliph said with a smile. “We must
discover—”

Al-
Dula’s
words were cut short when the hashshashin came to an
abrupt halt, his eyes locking on something unseen above them. He sniffed twice,
as if tasting the wind. The Saracen followed his gaze up into the sky, but saw
nothing that would elicit such a reaction from—

Wait
!
What was that
?

From the corner
of his eye, Al-Dula caught movement of something dark flitting from one rooftop
to another…heading in the direction of the baron’s home.

Had it been his
imagination? It had happened so quickly. It had moved with a speed that Al-Dula
had never seen before.

“Was…was that
it?” he asked Emir quietly.

Without
responding, the hashshashin bolted silently into the darkness and was gone. The
Saracen nobleman exhaled slowly. Whatever it was, his companion would find it
and would deal with it before it became a problem.

 
The holy
man is a fortuitous ally
, Al-Dula thought, but could not suppress the
shiver at the thought of the man as an enemy.

Yes, he would
praise Allah for the man’s friendship. But he would continue to keep a watchful
eye on him as well.

****

Gregory
dreamed of nothing. For the first time in nearly two months, he had managed to
climb into his bed, pull the covers up to his chin, and drift off to sleep
without any problems. Ever since that infernal Djinn creature first began its
rampage, the baron had experienced nothing but nightmares whenever he closed
his eyes. His physicians had warned him that if his sleep patterns continued on
their course, he would undoubtedly become too ill from exhaustion to continue
in his current office. So, he’d moved his bedchambers to the uppermost floor of
the tallest parapet in his chateau—where even the Djinn would be unable to
reach him—and had found the added security helped ease the tensions that
haunted his nights.

His
slumber now brought oblivion to the entire world. All thoughts of his current
plague of complications—thanks to the Djinn—as well as the preparations for the
monsignor’s upcoming sacrifice were completely eradicated and now Gregory
nestled his head into the plush pillow with a smile on his face. For the
moment, all was right with the world and soon, even the Djinn would have no power
over his dreams.

A
flutter in his room drew Gregory to the brink of semi-consciousness.
Movement.
 
An image of
feathers fluttering in the wind cascaded through his mind’s eye.

What was that
? The baron’s eyelids
remained shut. He didn’t want to open them. He was sleeping too well. So what
if a stray thrush had flown into his bedroom through the veranda door. It could
find its own way out. He rolled over onto his left side, pulling his sheets
around his shoulder.

The
flapping of wings jostled him even more to the waking world. Irritation grew.
He could not believe his misfortune.

“Shut…”
Gregory sat up to throw his pillow at the bird, only to feel his insides churn
in despair at the sight that greeted him. “…up.”

An
ebon shadow, in human form, sat on the edge of the bed. Arms folded, legs
crossed indifferently, the shrouded figure stared at the baron’s shuddering
form. A falcon, as dark as midnight, resting on the creature’s shoulders,
preened its feathers.

Lord
Gregory had never seen the Djinn before. Of course, he’d heard the rumors. He’d
listened to the nonsensical ramblings of cowardly knights, foot soldiers, and
mercenaries. But he’d never been prepared for the horrible blackness that sat
mere inches away from him in his own bed. It was as if all light was
inexplicably sucked into a void shaped like a man—a hollow space carved out of
some tangible darkness. Only the otherworldly green glow about the creature’s
eyes gave any indication that the figure was more than a shadow in his room.

The
baron’s tongue had swelled inside his mouth, blocking the words that would
summon his guards from just behind his bedroom doors. Why wouldn’t the words
come? He heard only a soft whimper escape his quivering lips.

The
beast before him laughed softly—a sound like that of a funeral dirge.

“Where,
dear baron, is your boasting now?” the shadow rasped. “Perhaps your courage is
still asleep?”

Gregory
attempted to stumble out of his bed, but with a speed defying all belief, the
creature spun around, slapping the baron against the chest with the palm of his
hand and shoving him back onto the warm comfort of his pillow.

“No.
You’re going nowhere for the moment, De
L’Ombre
,”
said the Djinn. “I have something most important to say and you’ll sit quietly
and listen.”

Summoning
at least some control of his faculties, the baron whispered hoarsely, “W-what
do you want?”

“Just what I said…I want you to listen.”

“All
I need to do is call out. My guards will be in here in seconds.”

“That’s
more than enough time to cut your throat.”

Gregory
contemplated that. It was true. The creature had immeasurable speed. He could
kill him and climb out of the balcony before his guards had even unlocked the
door.

“Besides,”
said the Djinn. “The sentries at your door…they’re already here.”

The
creature stood from the bed, unblocking the streams of moonlight pouring in
through the open veranda. A gasp escaped unbidden from Gregory’s lips as his
vision cleared. Four armored and well-armed guards lay in a heap on the floor
near the balcony’s entrance. They must have heard the creature enter his room,
come in and tried to stop it—and had failed miserably. The baron hadn’t even
heard a sound. A chill shivered down his spine at just how dangerous this
creature really was.

“Don’t
worry. They’re still breathing.”

“What
do you want?” asked Gregory. He couldn’t care less about the wellbeing of his
incompetent sentries.

“You’ve
already asked that.”

“And
you never answered.”

The
Djinn spun around, his cloak swaying behind him as if shades of night clung to
his frame. The cold green glow of his eyes bore straight into Gregory’s heart,
threatening to rip out whatever was left of his defiance.

“I
said that I wanted you to listen,” the creature hissed as he leapt forward,
clamping his clawed right hand around the baron’s neck. “And so far, you’ve
done nothing but flap those venomous lips of yours. Now…are you ready to hear
what I have to say?”

Gregory
attempted to speak, but the
Djinn’s
grip squeezed
tighter around his throat, effectively warning him not to say another word. He
responded by closing his eyes and giving a curt nod.

“Good.
This is your last warning, Monsieur De
L’Ombre
. After
this, there will be no others. If you do not do as I say, I will hunt you down,
find you, and string you up by your ankles in front of all Jerusalem. You will
beg for your life,
m’lord
…that I can promise you.”

The
creature moved his shrouded face closer to Gregory’s. He reeked of brimstone
and it was all the baron could do to keep his dinner down. The black falcon
perched itself on the baron’s headboard, peering down at the
Djinn’s
prey—ready to attack at any moment.

The
baron struggled to swallow. His bedclothes had already been stained with urine
the moment he saw the foul spirit in his room. His heart pounded like war drums
in his chest. He had never felt so helpless.
Or so afraid.

“I
know what you are up to, Baron. I’m here to tell you to stop now. You still
have a choice. If you continue down your path, you will destroy an unimaginable
number of lives…including quite possibly, yours and your lovely daughter’s. It
is madness to attempt to revive
Rakeesha’s
golems.
Even more insane to create your own army of the creatures.
They cannot be controlled, no matter what you might believe. The forces that
bring them to life are corrupt. Their very nature is to destroy. And they do
not care who their fell swords cleave.”

Gregory
stared back defiantly at the Djinn. He didn’t care about anyone other than
himself—and naturally, his daughter. The lives his golems would snuff from this
world mattered little to him at all. No. Soon, he would establish himself as
king of the entire
Outremer
and he
would finally have the means to the revenge he had sought his entire life.
No one—whether Saracens or Jew—would be safe from his wrath.
They would all fall before his might and the world truly would be a better
place because of it.

“Doing
this will not bring
her
back,
Gregory,” the creature said, sorrow strangely evident in its voice. Suddenly,
it was a voice that sounded oddly familiar to him, though he couldn’t place it.
Worse still, the creature knew what no other could possibly know…his true
motive behind his plan.

Gregory
had never been sure who had murdered his beloved Christina. Some said it had
been a lone Muslim raider consumed with hatred toward the Crusaders who’d
invaded the Holy Land. Others claimed it was a Jewish merchant, who had lusted
after his wife for years. It really didn’t matter. He hated them all. And they
all would pay.

Suddenly,
recognition struck him.
The voice.
He knew it. In
another life, in a different world, he would have felt completely betrayed. Yet
here and now, it made a certain kind of sense. He should have suspected. He had
done so much for the soul that hid behind shadows and superstition—and this was
how he was to be repaid.

Rage
welled up from deep inside the baron’s soul, squeezing out the fear that had
only recently overwhelmed him. Slapping the
Djinn’s
hand away from his throat, Gregory roared with anger.

“Take
your filthy hands off me!” He sprang from the bed in a moment of mindless
abandon, grabbed his sword, and whirled around to face the dark form enveloped
in the shadows of his room. The falcon screeched a warning.

The
Djinn’s
curved blade was already unsheathed, glinting
in the pale light of the moon.

“How
dare you!” Gregory spat. “How dare you show sympathy to me? Not after what
you’ve done. This is not about Christina. This is about what is right and you
know it. Those people do not deserve to live, and I aim to see an end to them
all.”

The
baron moved slowly forward, his blade at ready, testing the metal of his
opponent. He wasn’t sure how his opponent would react to an all-out assault.
Gregory knew that he had no hope to win in an open and fair fight if push came
to shove. He’d have to find a way to even the odds.

“You
cannot win, old man,” hissed the creature. “And I don’t want to fight you.
At least not yet.”