Vows of Treason

Foreword

Before meeting someone who had fallen to Earth, I had imagined the world to be flat. This stranger was taller than most men in the era of my birth. His eyes were capable of shifting the perceivable spectrum from the deepest black to the most brilliant amber light imaginable.

Materialising from the darkness of night into the torch glow at the gates of the compound overlooking the harbour at Alexandria, the stranger walked unchallenged into the comforts of my home. He was called Ghazzon-el, and identified himself as belonging to a little known subset of celestials from the Tenth Order, perhaps better known as the Grigori or Watchers.

He claimed that his small contingent of Light beings had mapped the universe in its entirety. When they returned from the dark realm to the Light and reported that the universe was growing inside Heaven at an incredible rate, their findings were hotly debated. As witnesses to the formations of new solar systems, planets and the birth of life, these astral adventurers became embroiled in the arguments concerning creation and servitude to mankind.

To demonstrate what the Star-Seekers had reported, Ghazzon-el requested a bowl of water and a vial of black ink. These items were brought forth and he said to me, Imagine the water in the bowl to be the Light of Heaven and this speck of ink the universe. He then placed a drop of black ink on the water’s clear surface. I watched the droplet expand, slowly shading the clarity of the water. I took his point that the universe had been created inside the Light of Heaven and was growing.

His eyes flared when he said, The dark universe is antithetical to the Light of Heaven by every means of measure. The devouring nature of the universe is no different than all the hungry life that was created within it.

This revelation spun my mind in many directions, but anchoring the possibilities was the most profound question, and I said, Ghazzon-el, where did the black dot come from? How can a physical object––the seed of creation––be birthed in the ethereal realm of spirits where nothing is solid?

He grinned and said, The Universe could have been created nowhere else. Humour faded from his expression as he added, The disturbing question is why it was created at all. You must understand that pursuing these physical objects of wondrous beauty split the unity of Heaven.

If what he said was true, then these adventurous celestials, by merely stating the truth of their findings, were banished from the Light in the same purge that expelled the better known of Heaven’s Rebels. These fallen angels were then burdened with physical form and remanded to Earth––left to roam the desolate landscape with no promise of forgiveness.

After this impromptu meeting with the celestial Ghazzon-el, I had no choice but to reconsider the tales from the fabled patriarch, Enoch.

Enoch had been an acquaintance of mine. Even now after all these centuries, it is difficult to consider him a friend. I won’t claim that Enoch published falsehoods, only that his writings were untimely. His stories generally seemed coloured by his appetite for fortified wine and fetching young women, but his ability to turn the most laborious pontificating into entertaining tales set him apart from other mythmakers of the day.

By now, you must suspect that I’m much older than anyone you’ve ever met or will ever know. On that matter, I shan’t try to persuade you to think otherwise.

I’ve survived the revolving centuries and have known angels on both sides of the divide.

These enigmatic celestials are the hidden seams in man’s history, the indestructible thread woven through the entire tapestry of humanity. Aristotle mistakenly proclaimed them as Atlanteans, not realising that their glorious island was actually the Light of Heaven, and that it was a shattering fall not a cresting wave that sealed their fate. Every ancient culture hints at angelic presence in myth and fable; few actually realise the truth behind the bardic veneer or colourful dance.

Easily bored by the tedium of human life, these celestial travellers often breeze through regions, lingering in villages just long enough to satisfy some momentary curiosity before moving on, occasionally leaving some miracle of accidental invention in their wake.

They rarely turn stones, preferring to plant the seeds of invention for others to propagate and nurture. I, too, have received the low whispers of Angelic urging and must admit their riddles have caused me to invent and construct wonder. Why, when gifted with such a developed intellect, they are not more forthright bequeathing knowledge, is a mystery and great annoyance to a man of science.

These celestials have entertained and infuriated me over the many eons of our association. Time may wash the colour from my memories, but its passing has failed to fade my need of their communion, and it appears these celestials have need of me. Yet, I am a mere toy in the pantheon of affections, whereas they are bound to each other by the luminous crystal makeup of their bones and the amber-coloured blood that they share.

In this age, they call their union the Blood Royal as a ruse, taking on the chivalrous trappings of knighthood. Once allied with the Templar Knights and the Knights of Malta, as well as other lesser known Orders of chivalry, the Blood Royal have been chastised as mysterious mercenaries, crusaders of wealth by those less knowing, never by me. Their world is a violent realm of secrets I dare not betray by revealing the codex of those I admire and fear.

Let it be known that the mysteries of Heaven have found their way to Earth in the form of angels and much worse. We inhabitants of this world are blissfully blind to the battle raging in the cosmos, bloodying the fields of the invisible realm. I have gleaned from the combatants vile images of this celestial contest evolving from sport into an epic war of survival, becoming more than a toss of numbered bones with the outcome far from settled. ‘Tis sage to scour the skies for the coming storm. — The Chronicles of Fambres, Undated.

Chapter 1

Found the way in, couldn’t wait.

Fambres stared at the glittering worded message floating in the crisp mountain air. With a swipe of his hand the words fell apart and the gold glitter clung to the wizard’s robe as he charged forward through the magic dust.

You bloody fool! He cursed the mound of clothes as if Fannes was still wearing them. He then cursed himself for leaving him here alone in the presence of such a find. Of course Fannes would betray their agreement, for it was his nature to be the first at whatever the quest or discovery. In hindsight, Fambres doubted he could have stopped Fannes from such a leap into the unknown, but he should have been here nonetheless.

He moved into the violet-coloured light cast from the luminous spire. Mysteriously placed among the surrounding pines, the monolith tapered into a fine point against the night sky. The wizard knew that there existed trees taller and thicker in girth, but none more majestic than this anomaly from another world.

His sharpened gaze scoured the translucent surface. He expected to see his friend grinning back from the other side, mouthing the words, Join me, Fambres. The undulating light was hypnotic in its invitation, penetrating the satin cloak with strange warmth that was irresistible.

Damn you Fannes, he muttered while removing his rings. The genuine fear he felt for his fellow wizard, mixed with the desire to join him in yet another mad adventure, was cause enough for the tingling sensations rolling over his skin. Lightning streaked the blackness and drew his gaze skyward to the fast moving clouds portending bad outcomes.

Choking back an old habit of hesitation, he placed his palm against what appeared to be a solid surface, but his hand was absorbed into the gelatinous mass.

Suddenly, as if transported through time and space, Fambres was a child again playing on the banks of the river Nile with Fannes, even then his best friend. His father alerted them to the brilliant mass of silver swirling beneath the rippling surface.

With a clap of his jewelled hands, he sent the boys rushing into the water, splashing and grabbing for the silver streaks. But the fish darted, leaving the lads empty handed. They splashed each other with blame and laughed at the bleeding blue dye ruining their formal tunics. A booming voice broke their merriment, and they looked farther downstream to Fambres’ regal father, bending over in knee-deep water, his silver and gold armbands and necklace jewellery glinting in the sun, his hand sinking.

The Pharaoh’s physician flicked a long silver fish out of the water and onto the shore. Laughing, he called out, Boys, it’s best not to frighten what you wish to make your own. After instructing his servants to net as many fish as possible, he returned to his party lounging on their day beds in the shade of colourful awnings strung among the date trees.

Under the watchful eye of a personal slave, the boys waded back into the water. Fannes knelt down, resting his hand on the riverbed and waited. Fambres stood motionless beside him and whispered, These fish have wicked teeth. He frowned when Fannes kept his vigilance in light of the danger to his fingers.

Moments later, the school of fish returned sweeping against Fambres’ legs, sending a clammy sensation shivering up into his torso. Gathering courage, he dipped his hands into the water.

Fannes flicked the unsuspecting fish up into the air, startling Fambres and causing him to stumble and fall.

Once his eyes cleared, he saw his father applauding Fannes. The experience had been a small but memorable humiliation that in their thirty-year association had been repeated a thousand different ways.

Fambres turned his present gaze to the mound of clothes, magic slippers and satchel belonging to his secretive friend. Therein lay a wealth of forbidden knowledge. He considered pilfering the sorcerer’s secrets but hesitated, fearing that Fannes might be watching from the realm of spirits.

Turning his thoughts to the spire, he was standing on the bank of a far more mysterious flow. He quickly disrobed, leaving his own cache of wonders beside those discarded by Fannes. Staring at the two indigo-coloured cloaks, decorated with spun gold symbols and glimmering specks, he saw crumpled skies with unclear meaning. His gaze darted to the black twinkling sky, perhaps the final reminder of what he was risking. Fannes may have been the first to steal away into Heaven’s portal, but he’d be damned if his oldest friend and closest competitor was going on this celestial journey alone.

Unarmed, naked as the night of his birth, he flung himself directly onto the shimmering spire. He was met not by hard barrier but condensed light congealed and gelatinous, giving way to his intrusion, absorbing his being into the violet-coloured realm of spirits.

The spire’s interior light appeared to waver, stretching to infinity in all directions. He was floating in vacant space, and the absence of terra firma was disorienting, even for one who was known to disappear in palls of smoke. He had only taken one step, yet his position of entry was a vanishing point that could only be guessed at.

There was no alpine breeze, perhaps no air at all. Repeatedly he gulped, trying to fill the emptiness feeling in his lungs, but they were as still as worthless bellows. His mind panicked, but at the same moment his heart felt comforting relief. Slowly, he realised he had no need for air, and the internal warmth encasing his heart reverberated, resolving into a whispering voice, Breathe with your heart if you feel you must.

In all directions, there was nothing but shades of blue and violet light streaked with beams of amber. Looking down, he couldn’t even see himself. Though he felt whole when he tried to pat his chest, his transparent hands were nothing more than invisible memories, as were his feet.

He opened his mouth, but his words were inaudible. Then a rush of gentle wind swirled around him, leaving a hint of warm laughter tickling his sides.

Don’t look, see, said a voice from behind. The message dissipated, and he found himself staring at the glowing form of a winged being—yet he had not turned. The fact that he could see through the back of his head didn’t seem as strange as the diaphanous humanoid shape taking female form.

She cocked her head to the side and voiced the question without moving her mouth, Why are you here?

Fambres felt threatened by her tone and said politely, I’ve come for my friend, to return home. He is called Fannes, perhaps you know of him.

The dead will not return with you.

Fannes is not dead, nor am I. A sudden shard of dread punctured his heart. Or am I—dead?

Frustration marred her face and her wings spun wildly, wrapping tightly around her torso and leaving but a small slit in the cocoon for her eyes to voice her suspicions.

I beseech your aid in these answers, he pleaded.

The sapphire-coloured eyes flared, and through the winged veil came her message, For such answers you need only search thy self.

He shut his eyes but the pervasive light did not dim the dark tomb of his imagination. She was still there, an unwavering and beguiling vision. The familiar silver flashes streaking those vibrant blue eyes transfixed and stripped him of his prized titles––wizard, physician, first born. By unknown sorcery, he was returned to the time and place, the foundation of his being—and he felt once again the chilled waters of that childhood memory. But this time, he was the doomed fish torn from its watery world and thrown through the air so foreign to it.

The connection was severed as the celestial broke the visual plain with a wave of her wing. As the mental images vanished, he could now see his own hands and feet were no longer transparent. All around him the vacant space now had depth and dimension newly created by the overlapping geometric patterns of coloured light panels, reminding him of a large puzzle that had yet to be arranged. Then he saw new concern on her face and followed her gaze to the distortions in the undulating beams of light.

The mirage of stirred cosmic dust resolved into the image of another winged being, carrying what appeared to be Fannes tucked under an arm. Only now did it occur to Fambres that he might be in the company of celestial angels, and the fear was overwhelming.

Her wing stretched, pointing to another rumbling bank of green clouds that materialised into a formation of winged demons. They fell on the angel in a clash of angry wings, and rising from confusion was a single glowing blade. The wizard thought there might be as many as three hundred attackers encircling his friend and the angel.

The lone celestial pursued his demonic enemies, valiantly parrying with a sword that crackled lightning with each blow. But as the angry pack kept nipping and gained advantage, the sparking sword slowly began to dim beneath the green cloud.

Fambres cringed, watching Fannes being ripped from the side of the wounded angel and whisked away by two of the monstrous assailants. The angel appeared beaten as the last few flicks of light dimmed and the sword fell. Fambres felt his new companion depart, gliding toward the skirmish. Her speedy arrival cowed the remaining demons, their numbers now diminished by the guardian. Reacting as rabid dogs, they scattered and lingered beyond her reach, licking their wounds before scrambling away when she advanced again.

She knelt over the stricken angel as if mourning or praying, but then released his hand, levitated and started back, carrying the sword of the vanquished hero.

You are not welcome here, her whisper carried a harsh tone, Come!

But Fannes! I…

Your friend belongs to them now.

As her wings engulfed him, Fambres watched the demons fall on and cannibalise the downed angel. Suddenly the carnage was shrinking––he was moving away at unimaginable speed, and then plunged into what could have been a vat of honey. His energy form was constricted under the crushing weight of gravity on his flesh. Air rushed into his lungs, and he could feel raindrops splattering on his head and shoulders and hear thunder clapping in his ears. Then struggling to see his dark surroundings, he feared that he might have been blinded for entering the forbidden realm of spirits.

My eyes! he cried out.

Open them! commanded the angel in a loud voice.

Her physical voice surprised the wizard. His eyelids parted and he noticed her mouth was forming words.

Do you see me? she said.

Feeling foolish, Fambres gave a nod and gawked at her naked flesh, pure as white porcelain with long wings touching the earth. Then he noticed that the rain was washing down the sides of the spire and the runoff was forming luminous puddles and cataracts meandering toward his feet.

She turned away from the spire, and in doing so, revealed the sword in her hands and the distressed expression marring her face. She began sorting the wet garments and wrapped the blade in a cotton tunic. She approached Fambres and pushed the bundle at him.

Stumbling back, Fambres, threw up his palms, No, I have no use for such a weapon.

Take it! She thrust the bundle into his chest nearly bowling him over. Never touch the blade with your hands, but forever guard it with more than your life.

But why me—when you are here?

I’m merely a messenger, she said demurely, her eyes held his for a moment as if trying to communicate a wordless message, but he felt nothing. She shook her head and knelt down over the glowing stream flowing between his feet.

You must sup this, she said and raised her cupped palms brimming with luminous water. It will keep you well. Tilt your head. Now!

The intimidating blue flame in her eyes frightened Fambres into submission. He leaned back his head, opened his mouth and watched her hands part. The liquid pouring into his mouth was tasteless yet pleasant in the way it was absorbed by the delicate tissues in his throat. He felt the sudden energies of youth.

She placed her glowing palm to his forehead, causing his body to stiffen from the shocking bolt. Henceforth until this sword is retrieved, your spirit is barred from ever returning to the Light, she said and withdrew her hand.

What does it mean?

In most ways you are now immortal.

In most ways? He rubbed the glowing bruise on his brow. What ways exactly?

She shrugged her wings, tilting her head, possibly indicating she was searching for an explanation when, over her shoulder, he saw the odd distortions in the outer shell of the spire—forming into a misshapen hand. He cried, They’re here—

The words were still falling from his mouth when he was jerked off his feet and carried up into the air. He felt queasy and fought the urge to wretch as they circled the clearing and landed on a stout limb of a pine tree.

Who are you?

I told you, she whispered harshly, A messenger.

Am I truly banished for my trespasses?

Without answering she stayed just long enough for him to get balanced before diving back into a glide and landing near the spire as the first demon materialised in the flesh.

Fambres cringed seeing the creature stretch its wings and whip its tail. His eyes snapped shut and he hugged the tree.

While the demon acclimated to the physical world, smoothing its jerky movement, a stone grazed the creature’s protruding brow. Then a second stone smacked the ridged bridge of its nose. The wraith swung its head and beady red eyes toward the angel. Crudely shaped wings unfurled off its back and he went on the attack.

The angel dropped the stone and flared her wings, darting away as a second demon materialised.

Fambres gathered courage, and opened his eyes. Peeking through the pine bows, he saw the angel in flight with two demons in pursuit. The three of them vanished into the night before he could fully grasp what he was witnessing.

Pressing his face against the coarse bark, he closed eyes, praying that when they opened, he would find himself in bed awakening from a horrific dream. Then he heard a guttural groan and spotted a third demon emerge through the vortex. The wraith walked around the spire, appearing somewhat mystified by the monolith. The creature examined and sniffed the piles of clothes, and then the thing jumped up and flew off in the same direction the others had flown.

After sigh of relief, he felt the pain of cramped hands and relaxed his grip on the sword. The rustling sound above him drew his startled gaze. Staring back were the bright yellow eyes of an owl that had landed on a higher branch. Relieved, he shuttered his eyes and silently chided himself for taught nerves. While listening to the light patter of rain, he felt something brush against his shoulder. Cracking open his left eye he gasped, seeing the end of a spiked wingtip creeping across his back. Widening his field of vision, he was looking down the length of a scaled wing to a pair of red eyes over a cruel yellow grin. Awestruck, terrified, Fambres hadn’t noticed the tail coiling around his left foot.

The demon sprang off the branch whisking Fambres from his perch. Hanging upside down, swaying left and right, he clutched the sword. Flung onto the rain-drenched ground, the wizard bounced with a bone-crushing thud and lay in the mud moaning.

The demon walked full-circle around his prey, wing tips prodding Fambres’ tightly clenched hands to release the bundled sword.

Fambres kept his gaze on the pulsating barbed tip of the flitting tail as though it were a venomous serpent poising to strike. His body winced and shivered each time the talons at the end of the creature’s wing plucked at his fingers clamped around the sword. The probing talon snagged his collarbone and lifted him off the ground. Staring at the crude humanoid face, he felt his gaze being trapped by the hypnotic pull of its reptilian red eyes.

The visceral fear gripping the wizard bespoke a new dimension of evil too foreign to rationalise. His hands shook uncontrollably, and then he realised that the sword was vibrating through the cloth. Bowing his head in submission, he slowly offered the bundle.

The wraith leaned forward, raising his tail for the kill just as the cloth slipped off the blade.

Fambres swung the sword in a high arc. The glowing blade caught the demon’s jaw, slicing off the lower half of its face. The downward motion took an arm and sprayed the demure man with sizzling blood. A quick thrust and the blade burned into the creature’s chest; he pulled back a skewed misshapen heart still spurting a greenish-brown stream at the end of the sword. A thin film of blue flame, unfettered by the rain, radiated from the blade engulfing the organ, melting it as if made of wax.

Fambres scurried back away from the collapsing creature. Gasping for air, he watched the blue flame clean the blade.

He stared for the longest while at the mortally wounded monster from another world, while the cooling rain cleansed his face and hands of sticky blood. He fought the nausea that such violence always triggered within him, but his last meal was already on the move and spewed from his mouth.

Then the quivering corpse rose to its knees, lunging blindly.

Fambres hefted the blade higher. Damn you! He cried and leapt up as the blade came down, severing the demon’s head with a savage slice, Damn you to hell!

Chapter 2

MOROCCO 1430 AD

Alalma, the blood moon floating above the distant Atlas Mountains, cast an orange light over the plateau’s sand dunes and deep depression of the wide gulley.

Silhouetted by lunar flare, Warrick stood atop a bold outcrop of rock bordering the wadi. His amber gaze was set firmly on the heavily fortified Kasbah that had been built upon the only crag of granite on this desolate stretch of coastline. Then he noticed lavender streaks illuminating the dark storm clouds that were rapidly forming over the sea. The fact that his sleek black armour was absorbing the ominous lavender-light instead of reflecting it was of little concern.

Perdith, he murmured, Where do they keep you?

Even from his elevated vantage, the activity in the large courtyard was indiscernible due to the fort’s high walls. He thought it likely that she was being held somewhere higher, more secure. His gaze lifted to the battlements of the tall tower, fringed with torchlight. Straining to see through the sand-bitten wind, the rooftop ceremony remained a mystery.

Below and to the right of the Moorish castle, a long inlet cove sheltered three sailing caravels from an angry sea that was growing more frenzied with each passing moment. A flash of lightning revealed multitudes of swirling dust devils careening across the landscape. This storm, rushing over the Atlantic, was in season, but its lightning was tinted with foreboding lavender from the ethereal realm.

Warrick removed his mailed gloves and then his helmet. Slabs of long straight hair whipped his face until swept back and secured behind his ears. He flared his nostrils but despite his acute sense of smell and taste, the strange element eluded translation; indeed the air was charged with something other than feral scents and sea ionization––something otherworldly.

Above the buffeting wind he heard the whinny and neigh of a horse. He looked down the escarpment past the conical campaign tent to his spirited black steed, Traveller, dancing and pulling against the tether line.

Farther down the wadi a lone horseman was riding up from the beach. There should have been two. Instinctively his left hand moved to his studded sword belt.

Warrick scrutinised the rider’s horsemanship for clues of his identity and recognised the armour beneath a flowing jellaba robe. When the rider came to a halt near the tent, he flicked a small stone at the dark knight who snatched it from the air with blurred quickness.

Paladin. Warrick grinned. I could have mistaken you for a Berber, but they are better horsemen.

Pushing back the hood, Paladin revealed the luminous eyes their kind shared. Ah, Mon ami, he said, his English yet harbouring that stubborn hint of French that decades of living in Britain had failed to dislodge. There you are––a black beacon on this eve of wicked omens. He slipped out off the saddle and quickly offloaded two bulging bags tied together by a strand of rope.

Warrick watched Paladin slit open the oiled canvas bag, gushing water. Best wait till that mare’s sides stop heaving before letting her sup, he warned.

I think you confuse me with Mayhem, said Paladin glibly and began washing the sandy grime from his face. He dried his pleasant, if not handsome features with the long tails of the black silk scarf wrapped around his neck. Warrick, there is little you can teach me about, étiquette du Cheval, he said. Unbuckling the belly strap, he removed the saddle and blanket in a single move. For that matter, I am certain to understand femelles better too. His wide mouth settled in a charming smile and he began smoothing the mare’s withers with currycombs.

Warrick’s mind was set on more important issues when he said, Where is Mayhem?

The braggart boasts of opening the main gate for Arturo’s gallant arrival.

He’s gone in alone?

Mon ami, what did you expect?

Of course Paladin was right, he thought; Mayhem had a propensity for single-minded heroics. Another flash of lightning turned his focus back to the fort, where storm clouds were now rotating above the main tower as if anchored magnetically. What evil are the Hashshashins engaged in? The rumours of Persian assassins operating in North Africa and Southern Europe were widespread and he wondered if this was where they were trained for their nefarious acts. He turned his gaze to the plateau and horizon above––but still no signal-fire. The main party was long overdue from their expected arrival. Frustration wrinkled his brow.

Paladin removed the mare’s bridle and let her drink, then offered a handful of honey-sweetened grain along with a mental command to stay put.

Moving past the cache of weapons piled outside the tent, Paladin left his bow and quiver of arrows hanging on the rack holding their lances. In three bounds, he climbed up the escarpment with the agility of a large predatory cat. Stepping next to Warrick he inquired, Any communiqué from Arturo?

I’ve wit, no torchlight nor message arrow.

Together they scanned the sloping plateau cleaved by the wadi.

Mon ami, if you have not already seen their fire, they may not arrive before the dawn.

The atmosphere suddenly lit up as interwoven tendrils of lightning spiraled within the flow of the winds. The violet-coloured eye of the turbulent clouds tightened over the fort.

Warrick noticed movement and pointed to the East wall as a small detachment of cavalry, followed by a camel caravan, passed through the fort’s main gate. They’re riding to the southeast.

Ha! Berbers, they know when to run. Paladin snorted, Their women are braver.

Those aren’t Berbers. I recon Mayhem’s made his move.

Possibly, or maybe they flee this storm? He laughed and said, The breath of banshees.

Warrick’s lip twitched. We may not have time to wait for Arturo. How do we get into the castle?

Paladin flashed his perennial grin. Through a door. He laughed and bounded down the embankment in large leaps.

Warrick’s troubled gaze drifted back to the tower, and out of comforting habit, his left hand tightened around his main battle sword, ever ready at his side.

Stepping out of the tent, Paladin unfurled the long cowhide bundle of bladed weapons. From the varied selection of curved sabres, straight swords, short daggers, and knives, he chose a bandolier holding a dozen throwing knives, and then stuffed his quiver with arrows, grabbed his bow and helmet and moved toward his horse.

Best carry sword or sabre along with your bow, remarked Warrick as he moved past the rack of lances and long bows.

But why? he huffed, Persian assassins carry only daggers and wear no armour.

I assure you their corsair allies are well armed. Arrows and long blades will share victory this eve.

My arrows will find those fleeing your blades, he said and quickly saddled his horse.

Warrick dragged a pile of dry brush from the unused fire pit into the tent. After a few moments, the tent burst into flames.

Merde. Nous avons perdu notre e’quipement, said Paladin sourly. He pulled the helmet down over his ears and mounted up.

Warrick appeared out of the pall of smoke carrying his bow and quiver of arrows along with two sabre rigs. He casually slung a sword belt over his shoulder and tossed the other sheathed sabre at Paladin. As I recall, you did slay the previous owner.

Paladin snatched the sabre belt slithering toward him. He examined the soft-leather sword-belt, gold-tipped scabbard, and golden threads sewn into the fabric-covered hilt. Ah, Ali Ibn Sabah, decent swordsman, miserable lover, from what I hear. His grin flattened as he watched Warrick pitching their lances onto the fire and then the rack went on the pyre. All our weapons! Why?

You’ve made your choice.

Paladin shook his head. The fire was to be lit after Arturo signals us with fire.

Warrick returned to his horse, hiked his metal boot into the stirrup, and swung into the saddle. If they wit this fire, they’ll know we have started the attack.

And the Hashshashins––what will they think?

Let them wonder. He looked on his friend. You don’t fear this lot, do you?

Ha! he laughed, arm waving at the stars. Heaven abandoned us here––we’ve survived worse than prissy pirates. Spurring his horse he lunged forward.

Warrick wheeled Traveller round, gazing up the broad gulley, hoping against reason to see the torchlight of his fellow knights halted at the top of the wadi. Seeing a desert falcon flying backwards across the face of a red moon was cause to curse.

Damn it! Arturo, where are you! He spurred his charger onward chasing after Paladin who was already midway to the beach.

The drainage gulley veered gently to the left until it spilled into the sea, less than three hundred paces from the Kasbah’s protected cove. They found Mayhem’s horse tethered to a stunted oak tree, still saddled, munching on tufts of grass.

Behind the short dune, Warrick and Paladin decided against unsaddling the horses; they might need a quick getaway. They tied all three together and began stringing their bows and belting swords and sabres. When ready, they scurried up the dune and peered over the shifting summit.

Warrick surveyed the Kasbah’s north curtain wall and the adjoining main tower massively built right down to the water. I see only barren wall.

Paladin raised a gauntlet and pointed to the cove. Ah, the caravels block your view, but I assure you the cave entrance is a door to the Kasbah. The corsairs offload their vessels at the quay over there on that petit peninsula. His metal fingers traced the lightly contrasted rocky spine back to the mainland. The cave passage enters the Kasbah through the foundation, below that gallery of windows. Do you see?

Aye, is there no other entry short of scaling the walls?

Of course, we could venture to the main gate. Mon ami, you and I are too few for frontal siege. He wiped the sand from his mouth. Scaling the walls would mean leaving our armour behind.

Warrick frowned, I reckon this cove is two hundred paces wide. No boats on this shore; how do you suggest we cross?

Suddenly a chilling female scream pierced the dark, drawing their attention to the tower. The distressed echo faded and was lost to the wind. Warrick and Paladin exchanged grimaced expressions. Another piercing cry set them in motion.

Perdith! We’re coming! bellowed Warrick. Clutching his weapons, he leapt down the dune and ran for the cove. Paladin slipped out of the robe and left it to the wind.

Sand flew from their heels as they ran with the speed of gazelles, splashing into the water, submerging below the surface with less grace.

Warrick drew his last breath as his helmet filled. A glance skyward caught a final star bearing, and water rushed over his eyes. The numbing cold constricted his limbs and forced his heart to pump harder.

His metal feet crushed the centuries-old debris strewn across the cove bed. At eighty-five paces, the creeks and moans of the wooden hulls were above him. Brushing past taut anchor chains, he stumbled through more rotted crates and barrels. Pushing on, he found the vertical wall of the quay. His cold, gloved fingers scraped the slimy wall and blindly he followed it.

When at last they found the steps cut into the wall, the luminosity in Warrick’s eyes had faded to mere embers. He was as blind as would be a mortal man and just as hopeless in these murky depths. Knowing that his friend was suffering the same, he motioned for Paladin to go first, and pushed him up the steps. He drew his broadsword, but his feet skidded on the first step, arms flailed and stiff fingers fumbled the sword. Then as he fell back into the water, the bow and quiver of arrows slid off his shoulder and sank to the bottom with his trusted weapon.

Breaching the surface, he swept back the visor, stretching his mouth, gulping blessed air. His vision returned, focussed on the stream of human blood flowing over the top step and dripping onto his gauntlet. Staring at the empty fingers that should be wrapped around the hilt of his sword, he cursed, Damn! The water was too unfriendly to find it now, and he figured his other weapons would suffice.

Pawing his way up the steps, he came face to face with the pallid eyes of a dead pirate who, despite his condition, seemed to be whispering his name. Then he spotted Paladin crouched behind an overturned skiff, wiping the pirate’s blood off his dagger blade.

Latching onto the dead man’s arm, he tumbled the body into the water, climbed higher and peered over the top step; at the far end of the narrow quay, a group of Moroccan pirates were gathered around the torch-lit cave entry, their awed attention focussed upwards toward the tower where sheets of violet-coloured lightning poured down its facade.

He scrambled across the quay to join Paladin behind the skiff.

Mon ami, you will miss your sword, said Paladin in a chide remark.

Shaking the water from his helmet Warrick said, They will never see us coming out of this darkness. He drew his dagger and the long curved sabre, and then lowered the visor over his face.

No, no, no, leave the visor up. Let them see the evil in your eyes. Perhaps they’ll flee.

Surprise must be ours; let your arrows stop those that break ranks. He marched forward at a legionnaire’s pace, toward the ambient torchlight.

Stunned by the arrival of a metallic ghost, the pirates’ hesitation cost them everything.

Warrick’s sabre carved and cleaved in a merciless blur. Heads spun and limbs fell. The carnage was over in seconds with Warrick standing central to a ring of six corpses that lay butchered at his feet.

Paladin appeared disheartened when he entered the torch glow. Warrick, ‘tis more sporting to take the fight out of a man but leave him breathing.

There is no sport in our vengeance. He sheathed his dagger and searched for a second sword.

These men are not Persian assassins, said Paladin as he knelt and closed dead eyes. We are at peace with the Mohammedans.

Warrick bent down and pried a fine example of Damascus steel from the dead fingers of a severed hand. Brother, he said, while testing the balance of the long scimitar. We‘ve never waged war on religion––only men. He spat saliva onto the blade coating its length between his fingers. Men that dare challenge us as these men have.

Si vrai, so true, he said and then murmured, If we were only that pure. Paladin’s troubled expression darkened as he raised the bow, drew back the string, and launched an arrow over Warrick’s shoulder.

The arrow whistled through the corridor and struck a large bundle of sailcloth with such force it toppled the man behind it. The old man flew off his feet, propelled back into the doorway he had just stepped through.

Warrick and Paladin lowered their visors and advanced. The dancing light from the torches mounted on the rough-hewn walls shimmered across their wet armour as they cautiously moved into the doorway of the storage cell adjoining the tunnel. Paladin drew aim on the bare-chested man sitting on the floor, rubbing a bruise over his heart.

Pushing up his visor, Warrick illuminated his eyes and rushed the cowering man with crossed sabre blades laid at his throat. Slowly he drew back the swords only so far as to leave thin bloodlines. We’ve come for the one with eyes like ours. He repeated the phrase in Arabic and then in Farsi, but the man was too terrified to utter anything intelligible in any language.

Warrick leaned forward, probing the Berber’s grey gaze, viewing the old man’s memories; a series of translucent vignettes appeared, stacked in the order of their immediate importance. Scanning through the recent images of himself and Paladin, the arrow tearing into the sailcloth, he slowed the process when the menacing, robed figure with glowing red eyes emerged. Then Paladin nudged his shoulder and whispered, There are voices in the tunnel.

Warrick closed his eyes severing the visual plane and the visions faded.

Joining Paladin at the doorway, they listened to the reverberating voices of several men beyond the bend in the tunnel.

Warrick took the burning torch from the wall bracket, stomped out the fire and pitched the torch handle into the storage room before moving to the next.

Paladin joined the effort and between them they blackened a long stretch of the tunnel and then disappeared but for their glowing eyes floating in the dark.

Stationed in the storage cell on each side of the doorway, they lay in wait. Paladin held a dagger to the old man’s throat. Simultaneously, as if cued, they flushed the luminous glow from their eyes and melted from sight. In darkness they listened.

The pirates, loud with complaint about the blackened tunnel, halted at the edge of darkness. One of their men was sent back to fetch a torch from the staircase.

Paladin tightened his grip on the old man when the troupe stopped briefly outside the storage cell. The man carrying the torch swung it into the room but saw nothing in the feeble light and moved on.

Warrick allowed the luminosity back into his eyes, crossed to Paladin and whispered, Learn what you can from him. I—

Paladin grabbed his arm. But they are gone. Why harm them?

They’ll return with blood on their minds when they find their slain brethren. He relieved Paladin of his bow and quiver of arrows. Better to slay them now than have them at our backs later. He slipped into the darkness, shadowing his prey until they walked into the torchlight of the cave entry and discovered the corpses.

Warrick nocked an arrow, drew back the bowstring and released the first of nine arrows that would end the lives of nine men. All but one was silent in death, and he cried for his mother. Warrick shouldered the bow, drew the sabre, and marched out of the darkness. He snorted when he saw their cargo of soft cloth bags and crates of chickens. They too had been fleeing from whatever was taking place in the Kasbah.

What fear would force men to face certain death on such a stormy sea? He knelt over the frantic young man struggling to rise off the ground. Choking on his words, he pleaded for Warrick to remove the arrow embedded in his chest.

Speaking Arabic, Warrick said, Where is the woman with eyes like mine? His eyes flashed as he latched onto the arrow. Where is she?

Between wheezing gasps the pirate said, Mhezdeema has her. He cried out for relief.

Warrick warned that death would come sooner with the arrow removed, but the man continued to beg. As you wish, he said and curled his metal fingers around the arrow shaft, snapping off the flight of feathers. Then he rolled the man over and pushed the shaft, sensing the severing of organs and soft tissue until the razor sharp point popped out under a shoulder blade on the man’s backside. He pitched the bloody shaft aside and waited for the man’s screams to subside. Who is Mhezdeema?

The dying man spoke meaningless words through a fount of blood. And just before he lapsed into death’s grip, Warrick caught the fleeting image of a cloaked man in the corsair’s dulling eyes. He stood, staring at the tower bathed in ethereal light. Then moved by his own fear of the unknown, he disappeared back into the darkness.

Paladin laid hands on the bright haematoma, magically erasing the bruise, unaware that Warrick watched from the doorway.

’Tis cruel to heal a man only to slay him later, Warrick said as he entered the cell.

He will keep our secrets, replied Paladin while he bound the old man’s hands and feet with twine. Swears it by the prophet Mohammed.

Good Muslims never honour fealty to infidels. Warrick scoffed, Particularly to the Blood Royal.

I shan’t slay him. Paladin stood. Nor shall you. He took Warrick by the arm and moved him through the doorway. The ceremony is for the Hashshashins. They call it the eve of immersion. There may be as many as fifty followers in the pavilion preparing.

Persian assassins are masters of avarice, deceit and murder. In what else do they immerse themselves?

Avarice, deceit, murder! You could be speaking of us. His grin flattened when he saw the anger on Warrick’s face. It’s true whether you wish to acknowledge it or not.

Not this eve, Warrick said and moved ahead. At the bend in the tunnel, he asked, Have you heard tales of the Persian who calls himself Mhezdeema?

No, but the old man claims that a mystic arrived from the desert with the Hashshashins. He also told me the corsairs captured Perdith in the straights of Gibraltar, and now they regret this alliance with what he called Iblis.

Devil?

Paladin’s brows jumped. I think he meant another Persian peacock.

The world is ripe for another Xerxes.

We can’t have that, can we, said Paladin with a grin.

Rounding the bend, they could hear chanting echoing down a long flight of steps leading up to the massive horseshoe arch. They paused at the bottom of the staircase. Warrick sniffed the air. I taste a pungent odour?

Paladin flared the nostrils of his long nose. Oui, Hashish. Hashshashins claim it makes them fierce fighters. He unrolled a pair of soft leather slippers and quickly stretched them over his metal feet.

We’ll test their claims. Warrick reached for his own sabaton slippers but found the belt-pouch empty. Damn!

Mon ami, you’ll wake the dead, he grinned.

Warrick said nothing and started up the broad steps with a metal-on-stone clink that was fortunately muffled by the echoes of the ceremony.

They stopped when they stood eye level with the tiles of the mezzanine landing, and then crawled just high enough to peer into the recessed pavilion room but were still unable to see the source of the chanting.

Warrick peeked around the banister to a long corridor bordered by a gallery of windows open to the sea on the right and a solid wall with several doors to the left. In the opposite direction, the mezzanine ended at a tall arched doorway. The staircase was bathed in faint violet haze. He whispered, Must be the tower stairs.

They crept higher up over the steps and then crawled across the wide landing until they could look down into the recessed main room where four rows of cloaked men knelt on their prayer rugs.

Two men dressed in hooded robes escorted a pilgrim from his prayer rug to the ceremonial table against the far wall. The master of ceremonies, an imposing character shrouded in black, poured thick amber-coloured liquid from the ornamental urn into a small chalice. He raised his arms and head, giving the knights a glimpse of his unnaturally white face. Then he presented the chalice to the pilgrim, who drank it in one gulp. The man bolted rigid and collapsed into the arms of the two attendants. They carried the limp figure back to his rug and repositioned the man, kneeling as if in prayer.

The Mohammedans do not partake in sacraments of Christ, Warrick whispered. There is no such immersion in Islam. Is there?

Paladin’s face was a hard mask. No, this is different.

What wine glows amber?

Amber wine I have tasted, but wine is not what they sup, he said and held Warrick’s gaze.

I fear ‘tis celestial blood.

Better not be Perdith’s blood! It can’t be–– His voice withered in a dry mouth.

Paladin shrugged. If so, the immersion will turn them to blood suppers. He unsheathed a long knife. We should slay the lot of them now as they are surely unarmed and weak as kittens.

Warrick grabbed Paladin’s arm and pulled him back. No wait! He wasn’t sure if the hooded man was staring back at them. Does he see us?

The master of ceremonies stepped away from the table followed by his two assistants, taking the platter and goblets and the large urn with them.

The knights ducked back behind the corner of the wall as the trio ascended the wide mezzanine steps and moved toward the tower staircase.

Again, Warrick tugged Paladin’s arm as he rose up. Let the Hashshashins breathe a while longer. We need to climb that tower.

The fierceness melted from Paladin’s face, and he agreed with a nod.

Take the lead. He traded Paladin the second sabre for the bow and quiver of arrows. Warrick nocked an arrow, drew back the bowstring and covered Paladin’s padded march. He held that position until his fellow knight had crossed under the tall horseshoe arch, then slowly he began his jangling walk across the tiled floor. To his surprise he went unnoticed by the rapturous Hashshashins.

The knights climbed three flights of right-turned stairs before coming to a landing with a solid cell door. They froze when they heard muted voices behind the door. Warrick turned over the bow and quiver to Paladin. Go ahead, I’ll deal with this, he said.

Warrick waited until Paladin’s shadow disappeared on the wall, then he pushed open the planked door with the tip of his sabre. Through the widening gap he saw the master’s assistants standing over an olive press. Startled, they drew their curved daggers but backed away from the longer glistening blade.

Keeping them at bay, Warrick glanced at the urn from the ceremony that had been placed below a drain tube sprouting from the press. Opening the heavy lid, the vision of flesh wrapped with strands of black hair and congealed by amber blood produced a guttural groan spilling over his lips.

Perdith, he moaned. His eyes flickered from sudden dizziness, and he sagged against the press.

One of the assistants darted toward the door.

An ugly anger pierced Warrick’s eyes, as heat flowed into his hands. The sabre sliced the dark, cleaving the man’s head half off his neck. Turning his wrath on the second man, he said, Allah curses you this eve, Heaven will never be yours! On your knees!

Had the man just gone down, Warrick would have finished him quickly, but there was an arrogance in the Persian’s gaze that needed plucking. A quick thrust to the left eye socket brought a howl that put him on his knees and another sabre-swing severed his right hand, punishment for operating the press. The cripple screamed, covering his empty eye socket with his reaming wrist. The third swing took his head.

Sick at heart, Warrick sank, clanging his armour on the floor tiles, searching for anything that would alter this evidence to a different outcome; perhaps the amber blood came from a celestial other than Perdith. Perhaps it was Mayhem’s flesh and blood. He grit his teeth, recognising the cruelty of that hope, but he was willing to accept that burden on his conscience if it could only be so.

Emotions welled up, filling his mind with sweet memories of a far away place during that supposedly eternal, heavenly age when he had wings. She was there, a picture of elegance, twirling on the