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Authors: K.M. Weiland
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secure the elimination of four persons.”
“What four persons?” The question was more habit than actual curiosity. He was occasionally a mercenary, but never an assassin, if the two terms could indeed be disassociated.
“For the first two, my master offers seven pounds, in Turkish gold—apiece.”
Annan lifted an eyebrow. Whomever this Templar answered to, he must have his hand in the purse of a king. “Not many men warrant such a price on their heads.”
“You have heard of the heretic called the Baptist?”
Annan’s diaphragm tightened. So that was it. Father Roderic had been baiting him tonight during his interview with Richard.
“I’ve heard of him.”
“He is the first target. He is expected to arrive in Acre at any time. And with him, or shortly after him, my master expects a companion, a man named Matthias of Claidmore.”
“Matthias of Claidmore?” His throat tightened.
“You’ve heard of him?”
“I have heard of many Matthiases in my time. The price is the same for him?”
“Aye. As for the other two, they may not yet have arrived. And if they have, it is possible they are in Saracen hands. The price is seven pounds for both together. The man’s name is William, Earl of Keaton. But my master expects your assistance only if they are not already infidel prisoners.”
Annan willed his jaw muscles to relax, but only succeeded in transferring the tension to the back of his neck. He had suspected no less. The Baptist had warned him of the same. And perhaps—if he were to judge from the thud of his heart against his ribs—this was his true reason for coming here, despite all his denials.
The Templar hesitated and stepped a bit closer. “The fourth will be found in Lord William’s company. A woman.”
“I don’t kill women, Templar.”
“She’s wanted alive.” The words tumbled from the Templar’s tongue, as though he were glad to be rid of them. “Further instructions on how to contact me will be left at your tent, if you wish to accept the task.”
Annan gnawed his lower lip, and his gaze flicked to where the distant horizon was visible only as a darker line in a dark sky. My master wishes the elimination of four persons… How many persons had he eliminated over the last sixteen years? Far fewer than men wanted to give him credit for, but still too many. Every time his hand shed the blood of another, he swore it would be the last. And, every time, he found reason to raise his blade once more.
Why? Why was it so?
To feel the swell of his arms beneath the dead weight of a mail coat, to know the heft of his great sword in his hands, to smell the ripe sweat of battle on the dawn air—these were the things that had ignited his blood since his youth.
And yet he could easily have foresworn the anathema of the tourneyer and the mercenary. He could have joined the army—joined the Crusade—and battled on with the blessing of kings and Church alike. But he hadn’t. And never would.
He would continue on this downward spiral, always downward, until finally he could no longer lift his sword before his face to protect his life. He would die in the heat of his own blood, writhing in the mud, as had so many who had gone before him.
All because, long ago, he had been forced down this path by the dictates of his conscience. A conscience that was killed by its own steadfastness. And by Father Roderic. Aye, it had been Father Roderic who had pushed him down this path just as surely as he had thrust himself.
Was it not ironic that he should stand here now, only a word away from cutting down the head of one more innocent, at the behest of that same father?
His gaze returned to the Templar. “I accept your master’s offer.”
The Templar lowered his head in a bow. “The fee will be delivered to you—”
“Bring only the fee for Matthias of Claidmore.” The spiral was deep, but not so deep that he would kill the unprotected. Matthias, and only Matthias, deserved the death for which
“What four persons?” The question was more habit than actual curiosity. He was occasionally a mercenary, but never an assassin, if the two terms could indeed be disassociated.
“For the first two, my master offers seven pounds, in Turkish gold—apiece.”
Annan lifted an eyebrow. Whomever this Templar answered to, he must have his hand in the purse of a king. “Not many men warrant such a price on their heads.”
“You have heard of the heretic called the Baptist?”
Annan’s diaphragm tightened. So that was it. Father Roderic had been baiting him tonight during his interview with Richard.
“I’ve heard of him.”
“He is the first target. He is expected to arrive in Acre at any time. And with him, or shortly after him, my master expects a companion, a man named Matthias of Claidmore.”
“Matthias of Claidmore?” His throat tightened.
“You’ve heard of him?”
“I have heard of many Matthiases in my time. The price is the same for him?”
“Aye. As for the other two, they may not yet have arrived. And if they have, it is possible they are in Saracen hands. The price is seven pounds for both together. The man’s name is William, Earl of Keaton. But my master expects your assistance only if they are not already infidel prisoners.”
Annan willed his jaw muscles to relax, but only succeeded in transferring the tension to the back of his neck. He had suspected no less. The Baptist had warned him of the same. And perhaps—if he were to judge from the thud of his heart against his ribs—this was his true reason for coming here, despite all his denials.
The Templar hesitated and stepped a bit closer. “The fourth will be found in Lord William’s company. A woman.”
“I don’t kill women, Templar.”
“She’s wanted alive.” The words tumbled from the Templar’s tongue, as though he were glad to be rid of them. “Further instructions on how to contact me will be left at your tent, if you wish to accept the task.”
Annan gnawed his lower lip, and his gaze flicked to where the distant horizon was visible only as a darker line in a dark sky. My master wishes the elimination of four persons… How many persons had he eliminated over the last sixteen years? Far fewer than men wanted to give him credit for, but still too many. Every time his hand shed the blood of another, he swore it would be the last. And, every time, he found reason to raise his blade once more.
Why? Why was it so?
To feel the swell of his arms beneath the dead weight of a mail coat, to know the heft of his great sword in his hands, to smell the ripe sweat of battle on the dawn air—these were the things that had ignited his blood since his youth.
And yet he could easily have foresworn the anathema of the tourneyer and the mercenary. He could have joined the army—joined the Crusade—and battled on with the blessing of kings and Church alike. But he hadn’t. And never would.
He would continue on this downward spiral, always downward, until finally he could no longer lift his sword before his face to protect his life. He would die in the heat of his own blood, writhing in the mud, as had so many who had gone before him.
All because, long ago, he had been forced down this path by the dictates of his conscience. A conscience that was killed by its own steadfastness. And by Father Roderic. Aye, it had been Father Roderic who had pushed him down this path just as surely as he had thrust himself.
Was it not ironic that he should stand here now, only a word away from cutting down the head of one more innocent, at the behest of that same father?
His gaze returned to the Templar. “I accept your master’s offer.”
The Templar lowered his head in a bow. “The fee will be delivered to you—”
“Bring only the fee for Matthias of Claidmore.” The spiral was deep, but not so deep that he would kill the unprotected. Matthias, and only Matthias, deserved the death for which
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