Boots pounded toward him. He felt men around him. He heard them coughing
and sneezing from the spices that filled the air. A sword poked him
through his mail.
"Under me! Stab! Stab! You cannot hurt me!"
The cord went lax. The attacker had let go of it. Simon drew air
frantically through his tortured windpipe.
Before he could get to his feet, an arm, hard as if clad in mail,
whipped around his neck, clamping him to his enemy. He felt the edge of
a dagger at his throat.
Simon could hear the devil's breathing right by his ear. Frantic, he
jerked his head forward and drove it back, ramming the back of his head
into his attacker's face, slamming the enemy's head against the stone
floor. Simon felt stunned, but the other must have been stunned, too. He
heard a whispered gasp.
_How can the devil be so silent?_
He heard men speaking above him and feet shuffling around him, but
despite his command, no swords were jabbing downward. They were afraid
of stabbing him, even though he was wearing mail.
He arched his body and brought all his mailed weight down hard. He felt
the edge of the enemy's dagger scrape across the chain around his neck.
A bolt of terror shot through him. If not for that medallion, he would
be bleeding to death right now. Simon thrust his steel-encased elbows
into his enemy's ribs. The gasp was louder this time, and with a violent
heave he freed himself.
He twisted over, arms reaching to wrap around his enemy.
_I have to pin him down. I cannot let him get loose in this room again._
But the knees below him drew up and the feet kicked against him,
throwing him back.
"Right in front of me!" Simon cried. "Get him!" And then he realized
despairingly that none of the armed men on his side could understand
him.
And no one, it seemed, had flint and steel to strike a light. He knew he
was carrying none. Such a simple thing, yet tonight its lack might be
his death.
His foot kicked something that rang against the stone floor. His sword.
He swooped down on it, seized it, and thrust blindly straight ahead. The
point struck a stone wall, and he felt the blade bend. He checked his
thrust just in time to keep the scimitar from breaking.
He heard a movement to his left and stabbed again. Again he struck blank
stone.
_The devil is somewhere in this part of the room._
"The door!" Simon shouted. "Mathieu, get the door open."
He heard the iron bolt shoved back, the creak of hinges, the scrape of a
body being pushed aside.
But the blackness remained absolute.
_He must have put out the candle in the cellar before he broke in here._
Simon heard running footsteps outside the spice pantry. Sandals slapping
up wooden stairs. The creaking of the trapdoor at the top of the cellar
steps. And then there was light. Gray, faint, but after what seemed like
hours spent in utter darkness, it was as if the sun had suddenly risen.
_God bless you, Mathieu._
Scimitar at the ready, Simon swept the room with his gaze.
A shadowy figure stood halfway along one of the side walls, holding
something out before him in both hands. A miniature crossbow, a
vicious-looking thing. Simon turned to see where it was pointed.
He saw John Chagan on the other side of the pantry facing the killer.
He heard a snap.
But Grigor, the Armenian who had been hurt outside the spice pantry, had
stepped between John and the crossbow, and he took the bolt in his
leather cuirass. Simon felt his mind moving much more slowly than things
were happening, trying to grasp it all.
Grigor's eyes opened wide. Perhaps, Simon thought, he had expected that
a bolt from such a little bow would merely bounce off his hardened
leather armor. Or perhaps he knew that it would kill him.
In the semidarkness Simon could not see the hole in the cuirass, but
Grigor's hand went to his chest, and then he toppled over.
The Tartar Philip had picked up a bow from the floor, and so had the
other Armenian. Both raised their weapons toward the man in black.
_Now we have him cornered and in a moment I will rip off his mask and
know who he is._
The stalker's black-gloved hand flashed upward and he threw a tiny,
round object into the pile of broken wooden shelves on the floor. A roar
deafened Simon, and a blaze of white flame blinded him. The wooden
shelves were afire, the flames feeding on the powdered spices that
floated in the air. Heat seared Simon's face.
_Death of God! He truly is a devil!_
By the time Simon and the others had recovered from the burst of fire,
the enemy was out the door and running for the cellar stairs. Simon
cried out wordlessly in frustrated rage. He must not get away, not after
all he had done to them.
As the man in black reached the foot of the stairs, Philip stepped into
the doorway, drew his bow as calmly and carefully as if he were hunting,
and loosed an arrow. The man in black jerked to a stop. Simon could see
the shaft of the arrow protruding from his right thigh.
The man reached down and with a sudden movement snapped away the arrow
shaft. He drew a dagger with a strange blade that did not gleam; it was
dead black. He raced on up the stairs, limping, but with inhuman
strength and speed. Two more arrows flew at him, but missed, clattering
against the cellar walls.
Friar Mathieu stood at the top of the stairs. He held his arms out, a
lit white candle in one hand, blocking the stalker's path. The man came
at him with the dagger.
"No!" Simon screamed.
With a sweep of his arm the man in black threw Friar Mathieu down from
the banisterless stairs. The old priest fell six feet to the cellar
floor, struck with a loud, sickening thump, and lay there, still.
And the enemy was gone.
By the time Simon and the others had climbed up to the kitchen, the man
in black had vanished into the maze of dark rooms on the first floor of
the palace.
Simon, wild with rage and grief, forced himself to think. He was alive,
God be thanked, and he had saved the Tartars, but just for this moment.
The man in black, seemingly routed, might renew his attack at any time.
_And Friar Mathieu. Dear God, don't let him be dead!_
What was the creature Simon had fought in the darkness? Christian?
Saracen? Or, as his most frightening imaginings hinted, a being from
hell itself?
Clearly it was not some Filippeschi bravo who had somehow broken through
the palace's defenses. Simon's inspiration on the battlements had been
right; the Filippeschi attack had been only a diversion.
If a demon of this sort opposed the alliance, Simon felt more than ever
determined that the alliance must succeed. This was the hidden enemy
whose presence he had sensed since coming to Orvieto. The force
determined to prevent the alliance of Christians and Tartars. The one
who had incited Orvieto's people against the Tartars when they first
came. Who had set that poor devil of a heretic to draw his dagger
against them in the cathedral. Alain's murderer. Stalker. Enemy. Killer.
Devil.
Hatred blazed up within Simon.
If only he could have killed the man in black or caught him before he
escaped. Now he must guard against an enemy as evil as Satan. An enemy
powerful enough to throw an army against a fortified palace, subtle
enough to reach into an impregnable chamber and strike at his intended
victims. A being whose strength and skills made him seem more than
human. Cruel and pitiless, ready to murder anyone who stood in his way.
It was as certain as the judgment of God that they would fight again.
This was war to the death.
To be concluded in
THE HOLY WAR
Book Two of THE SARACEN