The Djinn (23 page)

“Be careful,”
he said as he started walking into a dark tunnel. “It is treacherous down here.
Follow closely or you’ll get lost.”

Within five
minutes, the group stalked into the vast chamber the Djinn had used for his
laboratory. Without a word, William traversed the circular room, lighting each
of the nine torches that lined the walls. For the first time in years, the
entire chamber was illuminated by the pale, yellow flames. The chamber was
supported by four sturdy wooden beams made from cedar. A pair of barrels with
Asian pictograms scrawled across them rested against each of the beams.
Tufic’s
mushroom patch, along with the laboratory table
beside it, were near the center. To their left, several strange-looking stuffed
dummies hung from cords attached to the ceiling—telltale signs of combat
practice evident on their canvas bodies.

“All right,”
the baron said, impatiently. “Where is it?”

With a defeated
nod, William walked to the lab table, its glass vials and crucible shining in
the torchlight. He crouched down beneath the table and pulled out a small
golden box. Turning to face Gregory, he opened the box to reveal the strange
ring with which he’d been so obsessed all these years.

“Give it to
me!” Gregory shouted, stretching out his hand.
“Now!”

Reluctantly, he
closed the chest’s lid and placed it in his brother’s open palm. He was risking
a great deal now. The timing would have to be perfect. The last thing he wanted
was for Gregory to catch onto his plan before he left the laboratory. Despite
the enmity between them, William wanted his brother to survive—for Isabella’s
sake, if nothing else. He would need to keep him distracted so he wouldn’t look
into the chest until after he left.

“Tell me
something,” William said as his brother turned to leave. “Now that you have the
ring, what will you do? With the Book of Creation in Al-
Dula’s
possession, what can you possibly hope to accomplish?”

“Have no fear
about that, brother,” Gregory said. “I’ll deal with that traitorous…”

A strange
whistle echoed through the chamber, cutting the baron’s sentence short and
sending William crashing to the floor. Recovering quickly, the leper rolled
over and pulled himself into a sitting position. A silver dagger was lodged in
his chest, just inches away from his heart.

Though his
golems, as usual, remained perfectly still, Gregory crouched down, panic
painted on his face. His hands trembled as he reached for the handle of the
blade sunk deep in his brother’s chest, obviously wrestling with indecision on
whether to pull it out.

“Traitorous
what?” a voice asked from behind them.

William and the
baron looked simultaneously to the chamber’s entrance. One of the
Knightshade
stood in the door, eyes glazed, mouth stricken
in an unnatural grimace. The warrior didn’t move. He merely stared into the
space behind the two brothers, oblivious to their presence. Then, he toppled to
the ground, a similar silver dagger shoved through his spine.

A figure of a
man, shrouded in shadow, slithered into view from behind the fallen knight.
Stepping into the torchlight, the hashshashin sneered victoriously at Gregory.

“Traitorous
what?” he repeated.

The baron
glanced at William, whose teeth now clenched as he yanked the dagger out of his
own chest. Taking his shroud, he pressed it against the wound, hoping to stave
off the bleeding. Gregory stood up from his brother’s side, his chin lifted
defiantly at this new threat.

“Traitorous
swine
,” he said, glaring at Emir. To a
Moslem, calling them something as unclean as a pig was the most blasphemous of
insults.
“Both you and your gluttonous master.
You had
planned on betraying me all along, hadn’t you?”

“That had been
the plan, yes.”

William,
watching the exchange, struggled to raise himself to his feet. This was going
to get ugly very fast. Gregory was good, but no match for the hashshashin that
now threatened them both.

Whether he
liked it or not, William would have to help his brother if there was any hope
for his plan to succeed.

Gregory caught
William’s attempt to stand from the corner of his eye.
Stay down, you idiot
, he thought as he glanced back at Emir.
Whatever differences he had with his brother, he wasn’t sure he actually wanted
to see him dead—at least, not by anyone else’s hand but his. Blood, after all,
was thicker than any other bond...

William
continued struggling, pushing his back against one of the cavern’s support
beams. He inched his way up, face grim, until he was finally at his feet.
Father would be proud
, Gregory mused.
Despite the baron’s position as first-born, it had always been William who had
demonstrated the qualities and determination of true nobility. Gregory had
always envied him for it. Now, he realized, he was proud of him too.

“Now, if you do
not mind,” Emir said, stretching out his hand.
“The
chest…please.”

Gregory
absently backed himself up against the wall as Emir slunk toward him. His dark
brown eyes shined in the torch light—eyes of death. The baron leveled his
blade, directing it toward the assassin. His other hand pawed the chest and
placed it gently in a satchel around his neck.

“I’m afraid I
can’t allow that,” he said, wishing he sounded more convincing than he felt.
Gregory knew that he was no match for a man born and bred to kill people in the
name of Allah. “Your master will never lay a finger on the Seal.”

The
hashshashin’s
face darkened, eyes narrowing to slits.

“Then my orders
are to see to it that you never leave this place alive,” he said. “And the
stones will be mine anyway.”

Gregory looked
around, pleading silently for his golem guardians to take up arms against this
killer. But he knew it was futile. The only thing they would do now was keep
his own
brother within arm’s reach.

Speaking of…where did he go
?

William was
nowhere in sight. As the baron and the assassin had kept each other occupied in
their current discourse, William had disappeared. He’d obviously fled to save
his own skin.

So much for being proud
, he thought.
Though how he managed to slip past my golems
is beyond me
.

Gregory knew
that he was in this alone. His golems would be of no help. His knights were
busy above fighting their own battle with the
Djinn’s
own army. And his brother had left him to his fate. No, he would have to defend
the ring by himself. It was all that mattered now. He could not allow the
Saracen to use its power…especially in conjunction with the
Sefer
Yetzirah
. He had long ago given up faith
in the God of the Pope, but he was a Crusader to the hilt. He would never allow
the heathen warlords access to the limitless power those two artifacts wielded.
He would see to their destruction first.

Emir struck
without warning. Spinning around, the assassin’s hand whipped Gregory’s blade
from his grip. His right leg, following close behind slammed against the
baron’s jaw. Teeth and blood exploded from his mouth as he fell backwards,
shattering the work table into splinters.

Gregory had
never seen such speed. There had been no time to react and now, much like he
had done with William only moment ago, the assassin loomed over him, white
teeth splayed beneath a jet black mustache and beard.

“I have longed
for this day from the moment we first met, infidel,” he said, staring down at
his fallen adversary. “Lord Al-Dula believed we had use for you, but it has
always been a dishonor to Allah. I will take great pleasure in bleeding the
life from you.”

Emir drew his
sword from the brown leather scabbard behind his back and raised it above his
head. Gregory was stricken with indecision, unable to move…he could only stare
up at his killer helplessly.

A strange
whistle through the air caught both their attention as a silver object flew
into the assassin’s back. Wheeling in pain, desperately grappling with the six
inch dagger now imbedded deep, Emir whirled around to see the dark form of the
Djinn crouching precariously on a wooden cross beam several feet off the
ground.

“I believe you
dropped something,” he said, his gravelly voice betraying his weakened state.

It was all the
distraction Gregory needed. Lifting his legs, he kicked the assassin’s flailing
figure across the room and Emir crashed headfirst to the ground.

“Get out of
here,” William called down from the rafter, just before flipping backwards to
land catlike on both feet. He looked at his brother again, eyes now hidden once
more behind the dark turban of the Djinn.
“Now.”

The baron
looked toward the door. Freedom and absolute power were only yards away. Once
he crossed the threshold and found his way to the stairs, he’d be safe. Dashing
to the entrance, he struggled with the desire to look back.
Not now
, he thought as the doorway
loomed closer.
 
If you do, you’ll regret it
.

He halted, just
shy of freedom, and turned around. Emir had risen from the floor and was
pummeling William with blow after blow to his mid-section. The once formidable
Djinn now lay crumpled on the floor, curled up in a ball to protect himself
against the kicks of the assassin’s pointed boots.

In desperation,
William swung his left leg around, knocking Emir off his feet and onto his
back. But Gregory saw the move had cost his brother dearly. Several previous
injuries secured by
Tufic’s
bandaging had now
re-opened with the sudden twist of his lower body. A flood of crimson ebbed out
from the wounds and onto the ground.

He’s going to die
.

The hashshashin
raised himself to his feet, dusted his pants off, and looked down at William’s
battered and bleeding body.

“You have been
a most worthy adversary,” Emir admitted. “I am honored to be the one to end
your life and I pray that Allah will have mercy on your soul.”

He’s
really
going to die
.

The Saracen
stooped down, picked up the
Djinn’s
bloodied
scimitar, and twirled it several times in the air, testing its balance. William
said nothing, but stared back at his opponent. There wasn’t a shred of fear in
his face.

“This is a fine
blade,” the hashshashin continued, raising it above his head.

I can’t let him die. I can’t let him die.

I won’t.

The whooshing
sound of the sword barreling down toward his brother filled the room. Gregory
flashed to action, faster than his next thought. He plowed into the Saracen
just as the sword was about to reach its mark. Both men smashed to the ground
to William’s left, wrestling for control of the
Djinn’s
blade.

In a single
motion, both combatants rolled to their feet. Gregory chanced a glance back at
William. Still alive, it seemed, but barely.
How much blood has he lost
?

His thoughts
were cut short just as the scimitar, having finally been wrested from his grasp
by Emir, whirred only inches by his head. Gregory knew he had to end this soon.
He was losing this fight fast. One more full-on attack and he’d find himself
missing his head.

He waited for
another swipe of the sword. Just as it reached its vertex, Gregory ducked into
a crouch, sweeping one foot in a circle against Emir’s ankles—a trick he’d
learned from William.
 
The assassin fell
to the ground with a thud, the
Djinn’s
scimitar
flying from his grip. The baron quickly snatched the sword up from the ground
and swung it swiftly to meet the edge of the assassin’s jaw line.

For the first
time, Emir stared helplessly up him. Fire burned in his eyes. Defiance. He
would not give up. Gregory’s throat squeezed tight. He’d won. He wasn’t sure
how, but he had won. He decided to press his advantage. He dug his blade deeper
into the assassin’s neck, drawing blood. He hoped the gesture would make his
intention quite clear.

“Surrender,”
Gregory growled.

The Saracen
only smiled back at him.

“I said
surrender.” He pressed the sword’s point deeper into his neck.

“Gregory,”
William croaked behind him. “No.”

“Don’t give me
your sermons now, brother. I’m in no mood to hear how the heathen deserves to
live as much as you and I.”

A rustle of
cloth moved behind Gregory. The fool was attempting to get up again.

“Stay down,” he
said to his brother, keeping his eye closely fixed on his captive. “You’re too
injured to move. Wait there until your servant
Tufic
can tend to you.”

More movement from behind.
The idiot never could listen to
good advice.

“In the name of
all that’s holy, I said…” Gregory turned slightly to scold his brother’s
stupidity only to find
himself
looking at the sneering
grin of Al-Dula. A long knife flashed across his throat and Gregory felt his
own blood gush from the open wound.

Collapsing to
his knees, the baron could hear William’s desperate screams barely above the
pounding drum of his own heartbeat in his ears. He scanned the room, his
brother struggling to his feet and reaching down unnoticed for a single torch
that lay on the ground.

What are you doing, brother
? He couldn’t
actually speak the words as his blood poured out, heating his linen tunic
underneath his chain mail. Black spots danced before his eyes. Light headed, he
looked back over to the grinning face of his murderer.

“I believe you
have something of mine,” the Saracen warlord said, reaching down and pulling
the satchel from around Gregory’s shoulder. “Now, Emir, leave them both. They’ll
both be dead by morning.”

The sound of
someone clearing his throat sounded behind the two Saracens.
 
“Gentlemen,”
came
a
raspy voice from behind them.

Both Al-Dula
and Emir turned to see the Djinn, slouching over with one arm clamped
desperately at his abdomen. Blood poured from between his fingers as he glared
at the two men. The lit torch clutched tight in his hand
hovered
precariously over one of the wooden barrels with Asian lettering.

William, what are you doing
? Gregory’s
eyes were growing dim. He was dying. But he’d hoped that he had distracted
Al-Dula and Emir long enough to allow his brother to escape.

“You should
leave,” he growled, lowering the torch ever so slightly. If Gregory didn’t know
better, he would have sworn his could see a smile underneath his brother’s
shroud. “This barrel contains nearly a hundred pounds of a black powder my
father, Samir, discovered on his travels through Asia. It is highly flammable.
With the lid off, all it will do is flare up in a quick burst of flame.” He
paused as he sucked in a lungful of air. “But the heat…the heat will be so
intense that the other barrels…closed and compressed…will burn as well. The
entire cavern will go up in a ball of flame. You want to live? Do so now before
I forget that I am not a murderer and take the two of you with us.”

Do it, brother! Drop the torch
! Gregory
wished that his vocal cords still worked. He wished he had strength enough to
light the powder himself.

But the
would-be Caliph seemed unconcerned. “Fine by me,” he laughed as he arrogantly
strode toward the door. His hashshashin, not nearly as confident, hung back.
“We have what we’ve come here for. We’ll allow you and your heathen brother to
die however you see fit.”

It was the
Djinn’s
turn to laugh now—a deep-throated, wet chuckle as
he pulled his hand away from his abdomen, reached into his cloak, and pulled
out a round, shiny object. It looked to Gregory like a ring. But that made no
sense. Solomon’s ring had been inside the chest. He’d seen it with his own
eyes.

Al-
Dula’s
eyes expanded at the sight. “What is that?” he
asked, digging into Gregory’s pouch, pulling out the gold chest and opening it.
A gasp hissed from his open lips. “It’s not here!”

“I do not
understand,” Emir said. “I watched you from the shadows. I saw the ring when
you opened the chest
myself
. It was still inside when
you gave it to the baron.”

The
Djinn’s
laughter increased to near hysterical proportions.
It was the insane, almost manic laughter of a man who knew he was about to
die—but would be victorious nonetheless.

“Have you not
heard, assassin?” the Djinn cackled. “I’m a thing of magic. It is mere child’s
play to conjure an item from a box.” Then suddenly, his glee shifted to a
somber silence. “You shall not have this evil ring. I will take it with me to
the grave.” He paused a final time,
then
spoke again.
“Now, run.”

He then dropped
the torch into the opened barrel, which immediately erupted in great swell of
flame. Al-Dula, who was closest to the door, bolted toward freedom. His
servant, Emir, lunged toward the Djinn in a last ditch effort to wrest the
arcane artifact from his enemy’s grasp.

Gregory watched
all this with quiet detachment. His time was nearing its end.

Of course, he
knew this had been his brother’s plan the entire time. It was the only way to
destroy his precious golems.
To bury them forever in the
cavern below his homestead.
He also knew that William had given him the
empty box in hopes that he would escape the fate that he’d set for himself. In
the end, the Djinn had tried to save even him.

Yes
, he thought.
Father would be proud…as am I
.

And Gregory De
L’Ombre
, closing his eyes to the sound of battle and the
crackling of fire, thought about his beautiful daughter…remembered his loving
wife…and prayed to a God he’d abandoned years before until he was no more.