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Authors: K.M. Weiland
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unless he has a sword.”
“Who is it?”
“The Baptist.”
“Eh.” The sound was more a fully formed word than it was a grunt, and Annan could imagine the wrinkled nose that accompanied it. “If you don’t want me to attack the blinking thing, then why go after him at all?”
Annan didn’t slow. The Baptist would not escape him so easily this time. Too many questions begged an answer.
They reached the first opening in the wall of tents, and Annan sent Marek racing down the new lane. The lad had hardly the time to reach the end when his call staggered through the groggy night. “Annan!”
Annan jerked to a stop and spun around, abandoning caution and lengthening his stride. Ahead of him, Marek broke into the opening, and his short sword flashed through the darkness as he ran. Annan’s legs pumped, the heavy eastern air clogging in his lungs.
They entered the open space near the edge of the Christian camp, and some two hundred paces in front of Marek, the Baptist hauled himself onto a gray horse, his dark robes gusting in the wind. Annan nodded in satisfaction. They had him.
But five hundred paces later, as Annan reached the boundaries that separated the Christian lines from Saladin’s barricades, they did not have him.
Marek skidded to a stop near the last of the Christian fortifications and sheathed his blade in a gesture of finality. Annan caught up with him and stopped, managing to make his panting sound as disgusted as he felt. All that lay in the darkness far beyond them was a Moslem prison camp.
“I told ye he was an infidel spy,” Marek said.
Annan grunted. “It was the Baptist.”
“Mayhap the Baptist’s a spy.”
“Mayhap.” But Annan didn’t think so. The monk had led him here deliberately. He had been trying to tell him something. An answer? Or another question?
“Come on.” He burned one last look into the darkness of the Moslem lines and turned back to the camp. If the Baptist had indeed been dictating another question, the answer just might be found in his meeting with the Templar.
Chapter V
CLOUDS DRIFTED ACROSS the moon, besmearing peerless gold with sodden gray. Annan dismounted some two hundred paces down the shore from the women’s camp and handed his reins to Marek. “Use those sharp eyes of yours to some purpose, eh, bucko?”
“To live is to serve, Master Knight.”
“If you don’t swallow that wagging tongue you may not live.”
“A silent existence doesn’t strike me as worth the effort of keeping.”
Annan straightened his tunic and loosened the dagger at his back. “A lot of questions could be answered tonight.”
“Or else we’ll never get the chance to be asking anymore. I still say this Templar is dangerous. Holy Orders don’t go around wanting people stabbed in the back.”
“We’ll see.”
Marek started to rein the horses back. “When you get into trouble, see if you can’t give a try to getting out of it on your own, huh?”
Annan trudged through the damp sand. Waiting, feet almost in the foam of the surf, stood a man, the shrouded moon flickering against the red Templar cross on his chest. Annan filled his lungs and stopped five paces from the knight.
“I’m almost surprised to see you,” the Templar said. He stepped closer and removed his great helm from his head. In the darkness of the clouds, only the vague outline of his movements were visible, but Annan perceived that he was a young man, younger than himself at least.
“I’ve never met a Templar’s master who approved of my sort,” Annan said. “Does he have a name?”
“As I said, I cannot tell you that. Only that he wishes to hire your services.”
Annan stared, trying to make sense of the shadows. His ears buzzed with the strain of listening. “I am a man of varied talents. Which services does he seek?” The young Templar stood at ease, one knee bent, the line of his shoulders supple. But still the back of Annan’s neck prickled.
“My master wishes you to
“Who is it?”
“The Baptist.”
“Eh.” The sound was more a fully formed word than it was a grunt, and Annan could imagine the wrinkled nose that accompanied it. “If you don’t want me to attack the blinking thing, then why go after him at all?”
Annan didn’t slow. The Baptist would not escape him so easily this time. Too many questions begged an answer.
They reached the first opening in the wall of tents, and Annan sent Marek racing down the new lane. The lad had hardly the time to reach the end when his call staggered through the groggy night. “Annan!”
Annan jerked to a stop and spun around, abandoning caution and lengthening his stride. Ahead of him, Marek broke into the opening, and his short sword flashed through the darkness as he ran. Annan’s legs pumped, the heavy eastern air clogging in his lungs.
They entered the open space near the edge of the Christian camp, and some two hundred paces in front of Marek, the Baptist hauled himself onto a gray horse, his dark robes gusting in the wind. Annan nodded in satisfaction. They had him.
But five hundred paces later, as Annan reached the boundaries that separated the Christian lines from Saladin’s barricades, they did not have him.
Marek skidded to a stop near the last of the Christian fortifications and sheathed his blade in a gesture of finality. Annan caught up with him and stopped, managing to make his panting sound as disgusted as he felt. All that lay in the darkness far beyond them was a Moslem prison camp.
“I told ye he was an infidel spy,” Marek said.
Annan grunted. “It was the Baptist.”
“Mayhap the Baptist’s a spy.”
“Mayhap.” But Annan didn’t think so. The monk had led him here deliberately. He had been trying to tell him something. An answer? Or another question?
“Come on.” He burned one last look into the darkness of the Moslem lines and turned back to the camp. If the Baptist had indeed been dictating another question, the answer just might be found in his meeting with the Templar.
Chapter V
CLOUDS DRIFTED ACROSS the moon, besmearing peerless gold with sodden gray. Annan dismounted some two hundred paces down the shore from the women’s camp and handed his reins to Marek. “Use those sharp eyes of yours to some purpose, eh, bucko?”
“To live is to serve, Master Knight.”
“If you don’t swallow that wagging tongue you may not live.”
“A silent existence doesn’t strike me as worth the effort of keeping.”
Annan straightened his tunic and loosened the dagger at his back. “A lot of questions could be answered tonight.”
“Or else we’ll never get the chance to be asking anymore. I still say this Templar is dangerous. Holy Orders don’t go around wanting people stabbed in the back.”
“We’ll see.”
Marek started to rein the horses back. “When you get into trouble, see if you can’t give a try to getting out of it on your own, huh?”
Annan trudged through the damp sand. Waiting, feet almost in the foam of the surf, stood a man, the shrouded moon flickering against the red Templar cross on his chest. Annan filled his lungs and stopped five paces from the knight.
“I’m almost surprised to see you,” the Templar said. He stepped closer and removed his great helm from his head. In the darkness of the clouds, only the vague outline of his movements were visible, but Annan perceived that he was a young man, younger than himself at least.
“I’ve never met a Templar’s master who approved of my sort,” Annan said. “Does he have a name?”
“As I said, I cannot tell you that. Only that he wishes to hire your services.”
Annan stared, trying to make sense of the shadows. His ears buzzed with the strain of listening. “I am a man of varied talents. Which services does he seek?” The young Templar stood at ease, one knee bent, the line of his shoulders supple. But still the back of Annan’s neck prickled.
“My master wishes you to
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