

ORIGINS

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### Origins

### The Living Sword Chronicles

### Book I

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By Angelo Tsanatelis

Published by Saphire Realms

Copyright 2011-2013 Angelo Tsanatelis

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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This book is a work of fiction. _Though some towns, cities, locations and historical persons may be mentioned, they are used in a fictitious manner and the events and occurrences are the product of my imagination or my own interpretation of a historical figure and should not be considered a faithful likeness._

Unrated 3rd edition (v 3.5)
More books from Angelo Tsanatelis

In the same universe

The Living Sword Chronicles Book I:

Origins -

More books from Angelo Tsanatelis & Saphire Realms

The Living Sword Chronicles Book II:

The Lodge & the Tribe -

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Discover other titles by Angelo Tsanatelis at Smashwords.com:

Songs of Sorrow- <http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/53039>

Songs of Loss- <http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/53037>

The Dark Notes Book I- <http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/66489>

& also by Angelo Tsanatelis

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Published by Saphire Realms

The Rootless-

Dark Hunter series

The Ghost of the Cazador

The Shadow & the Blood Assassin

Final Colony series

A.S.H.O.S. Eleven: Day One

Directive 3.1

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DEDICATIONS

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To the truths told after a cup of mediocre coffee

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### Table of contents

Prologue

CHAPTER One

_-Part I, (The Promise)_

-Part II, (The Asian)

-Part III, (Rousse)

-Part IV, (Azis Al Qatil)

CHAPTER Two

_-Part V, (The Black Knight)_

-Part VI, (Lacroix)

-Part VII, (The other path)

Epilogue

But if you insist on a really scary story

Then you should read about the Rootless

fighting the Sire's Dog.

Augustus Black.

Taken from the _Vicious Blade,_

the Living Sword Chronicles

Book IV

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" _I tell you, this truth is false,_

Her ugly face turns waste, to this life's seed

Woven's it, with necrotic piles of seaweed"

The ancient Mezcal.

(The Vampire Scrolls 6:7-11)

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Prologue

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You should help him.

A hissing scary voice. Annoying, to say the least. Like having a continuous buzzing in your head that refuses to go away. Didn't like it, much less needed it but he couldn't for the life of him find a way to rid himself of its constant nagging.

He is important.

Now that was plain stupid. There were like thousands of men around him dying, dead, or well in their way to reach that fascinating state of the human body. _Why should I even bother myself to save this one?_ If there was some hidden importance he couldn't see, well then that wasn't really his fault, no?

Watching him fighting desperately against that rather _fresh_ member of the _Tribe'_ and failing miserably was reason enough, to earn his contempt. A slow and pathetic excuse of a man that should have stopped fighting hours ago and returned to the safety of his camp, before his strength abandoned him helpless and an easy prey. Still the voice persisted.

We've promised to protect his kin.

He remembered nothing of the kind and he had more important things to do like figuring out exactly _what the hell he was doing in this land in the first place._

You've followed the Christian army.

Okay, that was perhaps an easy one. _And I did it because...?_

He had nothing there.

So the voice lend him a hand.

You think you've made a horrible mistake.

But he didn't remember any of this, so the voice added sounding a little sad.

That's exactly as it was supposed to happen.

Yet another riddle pretending to be an answer. His gleaming eyes returned on the unfolding scene. The man had been wounded. He watched him falling down and then the child of the _Tribe_ screamed in his head in ecstasy, preparing for the kill.

He decided to act.

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Europe 965-1000 AD

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CHAPTER ONE

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### Part I

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(The Promise)

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(My memories are all over this place...

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They damp its walls, soil its floors and laugh naughtily when the night comes. They come in my sleep. Wretched voices of despair and fear... familiar voices, an unknown, strange... fear. My memories live around me; and die a thousand deaths. From sharpened blades that slash through slipshod armors, tearing soft human flesh, spilling hot red blood on an alien soil. The flesh cooled many times... people have perished in abundance.

That... I remember.

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My memories have built me a castle.

They invited friends inside to keep me company. The friends brought endless hours of conversation. They've brought arguments, because every man remembers the past differently. They've brought me random sweet thoughts and the beautiful image of a kindred soul. A woman. Regal and beautiful, named after the moon. They told me her story, how she lived and the way she died. This memory had brought me nothing but sorrow.

Things I don't wish to remember.

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So I banned her away. Unmade her.

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My memories can fill up a world. I watch them as they gather around sturdy tables for another round of cards. They have faces and bodies. Flesh and blood. They speak and they listen to me retelling the same story over and over again. The cards drop on the table, the Weapon-Bearer flips them one after the other. An eight-of-coins, the three-of-cups and the Queen-of-swords. A terrible haul.

Then I remember. Not real faces, nothing but dead bodies. Hollow flesh and fake blood. Nothing is real.

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My memories have a will of their own. They hate and they cry for vengeance. They lie. They pretend they want everything returned to the way it was. Before Mah-Asti and the Master-Maker, before the Living Blades and the war of the Realms. They say blackness was better than an eternity of servitude.

Sometimes they fool me.

Sometimes I fool myself.

Then I remember...

Nothing is real.)

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July, 962 AD,

(Thirty miles from the Channel.)

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T _he sun managed to caress the wide blade of the Falchion as it came down with impetus to the chest of the first man of the patrol. The blade flashed for a brief moment and caught the attention of the youth almost twenty meters away. No more than eleven, though tall for his age, he was too thin, almost skinny. He had a tanned face and long blondish hair, tied back with a leather strap at the nape, eyes the deep-green of the forest_.

Then a man jumped out the foliage, long beard, long wild hair, eyes the color of the sea. Another one followed right after and another. Next thing he knew, they were everywhere. Armed to the teeth and speaking a strange language. One word he recognized, the blond god's name. _What was it?_ Thor. He may have heard Odin's name too but the boy wasn't sure. A heartrending cry belonging to a man he knew, a man that had traveled with him from their village snapped him out of his shock-induced state. But instead of the present it'd send him to the land of visions.

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The quiet and the emptiness reached for him. The world around became an unknown valley, where sculptures of warriors stared at him, their frozen eyes calling without speaking; the soil was like dust, everything was burned, spent, long dead. The figure of a giant man, wearing coal-black armor was towering his vision. He turned towards him, his black hollow eyes two beacons of darkness and spoke in an unknown tongue.

But it was a soundless cry;

The quiet and the emptiness...

he had stopped breathing, like he was already dead.

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Then the sounds had returned, coming from all places and he was back with the caravan, in his world again, _breathing_ , he realized relieved, _still alive_.

The son of the blacksmith Zosen, implored him to run away in Gaelic.

COURIR Philip!

_Go where?_ He puzzled. _There's nowhere to go._

Around him heavy feet were hitting the ground; swords were coming out of their scabbards and he heard arrows shredding the air. These were hissing terrible sounds that chilled his blood and urged him to give up. _If death has a voice_ , he thought, _it would sound like that_. Maybe his time had come.

Panic.

And a repulsive ugly thought.

Philip didn't want to die today. He probably would have objected as strongly if it was morrow or the day after. Whatever the case, his heart wasn't in it. So he panicked, a small almost effeminate cry escaping his rosy lips. Then he panicked some more. Finally with the killing and dismembering around him growing and coming ever closer he cracked.

His retreating foot caught something and he lost his footing. Philip screamed but it was too late. Still screaming he stumbled backwards and threw himself on his back with bated breath. He landed with his arse on the hard soil, made one clumsy tumble using feet and hands and finally -and remarkably- managed to stand on his own two feet three meters away. It was impressive but totally unintentional. He looked up again with panicked eyes and a little ashamed.

The Vikings had increased their numbers in those brief moments; still pouring out of the foliage, they seemed more and more with every passing minute. Like paranoid bloodthirsty demons, dirty with long beards and blue eyes, most of them wearing metal armor next to their skin, carrying big swords and sharpened axes. In the few moments that'd passed since his vision and the ensuing shameful tumble they had offset most of the able-men guarding their small group. Those who were still alive were allowed to gather around the women and children, with despair masking their faces.

Things didn't look good odds wise. _Actually strike that_. Things didn't look good period. Not far, from where he was standing, a small pocket of resistance had drawn his attention and his mind finally started working again.

RUN PHILIP!

It wasn't a difficult notion to grasp. He knew what Zosen meant. The young man who was like a brother to him was in a group of men that were still fighting, completely surrounded by Northmen. He was trying desperately to ward off, a series of ferocious blows, coming from at least two furious-looking Viking warriors that had their red hair caught in a braid. Alas the battle was lost, he knew it; they were just too many for them.

_Most will die_ , he thought a shiver running down his spine. _The rest will become slaves, either to the Danes or if they're lucky they'll be sold to become fucktoys for the Saracens._

That did it. The fear reached in his very soul and grabbed him with its icy fingers. Philip lost all sense. Just like that he was running, his feet barely touching the ground, pushing or jumping over badly crippled bodies, trying to get away. A woman grabbed his right arm. Turning he saw her face for just a moment, her eyes haunted him, asking a silent question; but Philip had no answer other than that he was running out of time. He fought to free himself from her tight grip.

When he finally managed it, panic gave wings to his feet. With a zigzag move he barely slipped by a disappointed follower of Odin and heard him, almost on his back, shouting and threatening that he would send him to Valhalla or something to that extent. Philip didn't need a translator to tell him _he had to keep running_. Thankfully, the big ogre was too slow for him.

Ogres are like that else they would have ruled the world by now.

So he kept on. At full sprint now, his lungs burning; he run without thinking of anything, a testament of will. He just wanted to survive this; just wanted to get away.

On and on. Everything around him blurring, the voices and the cries dying away. The only constant, his rhythmic breathing as he run. In and out. Soon it was the only thing he could hear.

Where had the sounds gone?

What had happened to the others?

Had he finally escaped?

Questions were coming one after the other, but he dare not slow down or even glance back for that matter. On and on he kept running pushing himself to his limit.

When totally exhausted he finally stopped running, the sun had hidden from the sky. His legs just died under him and he collapsed on the cool grass weary, breathing and hurting. Hurting because he was breathing. Philip left the tears he was holding back from the beginning of the skirmish flow down his cheeks freely. He cried for his mother he'd never get to know, for his Realm that had disappeared the moment the sorcerer had sent him through the opening. For Zosen who was like a brother to him these past nine years, for Tom the blacksmith that had become his father; and for Philip the Hunter that had saved him from the wolf. All of them have perished and he was left alone again.

It attacked him suddenly and with no warning.

Stinging agonizing pain; ripped him apart and he shivered violently, trying to fight off the coming blankness. _You have the name of a hero_ , he thought, _fight through it!_

NO... the scream escaped through his grinding teeth, a muffled alien sound. He was shaking now, the pain turned into a beast with a scarred face and great teeth that twisted and gnawed at his organs from the inside, pushing him to give up, to let go. Unable to speak, he just laid there lost in despair, sweat damping his blond hair and his sharp moans the only sounds around him for miles.

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The dark veil of night had well covered the world before his overall posture changed; the muscles on his neck tensed up but where previously pain had reigned, anger had taken its place. He much preferred it; and suddenly he wanted to go back and avenge them, all of them. It was a liberating need. _Not weak_ , Philip thought clenching his cleft jaw, _never again a will-less creature_. His heart was thundering in his chest and his cheeks were now dry from tears; tightened fists, so much so that his knuckles were turning white. Once again the voice of the blacksmith's son came to his mind. A clear honest voice;

_Philip,_ Zosen had yelled to him although that wasn't his real name, _Run!_

Behind the voice, the fear was still lurking and again tried to follow. But this time the boy was ready, blocked everything out and slowly gathered himself up.

"Never again...' the young boy muttered. 'Never again!" He repeated even stronger this time in what was almost a man's voice; a promise to himself. A promise Philip would keep, blinded to the cost, until the end of his life.

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### Part II

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(The Asian)

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Three years later.

(October 965 AD, the region of Castilla today.)

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The girl screamed and fell on the ground, the huge body of the Nubian covering her completely a moment later. Azis pulled hard at the reins of his horse making the animal stop and jumped nattily off the saddle. With large confident strides he approached the couple and upon reaching them put a hand on Nizam's massive shoulder.

"Leave her to me Nizam." He ordered him and the man got up on his feet pulling savagely the girl with him by the hair. She cried and tried desperately to free herself but it was a battle lost from the very beginning. Azis allowed himself a small smile.

"Infidel wench,' he spat in her native tongue, his Moorish accent coloring his words distinctively. 'why didn't you stop when I explicitly ordered you to do it?"

The girl, probably of Spanish origins, with curly black hair and clouded hazel eyes, was too scared to speak intelligently. She stuttered a number of incoherent words and Nizam's large hands, one still pulling her long hair and the other cupping her left breast, probably didn't help her a lot.

"Stop your driveling!" Azis snapped at her. "Do you see him?' he pointed at the Nubian towering over her, the girl's head reaching only mid-chest to him. 'he hasn't being with a woman for more than a month. When he is so deprived of cunt it is almost impossible for me to restrain him. Seeing that you are not even a Muslim, tell me, why should I even bother to try?"

"I can lead you to the village." The girl said then screamed terrified when Nizam ripped the top of her dress exposing her rather lush breasts. She kicked him and then tried to run but another huge Nubian appeared and stopped her with a hard smack on the face that send her crashing on the ground.

"Ilan!' He yelled at him and the second Nubian moved away from the fallen girl. She was twenty years of age, but looked younger and pretty enough to fetch him a good price at the slave-markets of Cordoba; but only if she wasn't too badly damaged. 'not the face. Let me see her."

He kneeled over the sobbing girl to examine her more closely.

"What's your name?"

"Tejra." She replied between sobs.

"Listen to me Tejra and I promise that I will arrange for you a very lenient master. Are there any more pretty girls or boys in your village? Perhaps friends you hang out with—"

"Just a girl but a little older than me..."

Nizam grunted on his back already impatient to get his hands on her, but Azis's instincts told him the girl had something more to disclose.

"What else Tejra?" He asked her keeping his voice appeasing.

"There is a boy, but he is too young."

Azis grinned at her words.

"A Spaniard?" he asked thinking that a young boy could fetch him an even better sum of money from the Caliph...

"No. A blond boy, I think he is a Norman." Tejra said and his grin grew a bit more.

...and a rare blond boy closer to a fortune.

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Two days later.

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The animal, a wretched old mule, groaned like a wounded man, showing its discomfort. It had appeared out of nowhere and it startled the life out of him. Soon the voice of a man, subtle, with a distinctive foreign accent, forced the young boy to recover and with his heart racing in his chest, he turned his attention to that location. But the newcomer was not one of the men Philip was tracking for two straight days now. The newcomer was standing unmoving at the edge of the clearing. It seemed unreal how he had managed to come so close, without alerting him, even a bit;

"Let the plans you devise, be as dark and unclear as the night, but when you decide to act, do so shining and swiftly, like the lightning that falls from the sky."

The stranger said addressing him.

_Had he really seen him?_ _Was it possible for the strange man to distinguish him amidst the thick branches of the bush, where he had squeezed himself?_ The boy had no answers and the man was facing him directly, like he somehow knew exactly where he was.

Face calm, with no rush showing;

The distant roar of the men of _Azis al Qatil_ coming their way could be heard clearly and anguish shook his heart. The boy was running out of time. He reluctantly went out of his hiding place and waved his weapon -a makeshift and rather long wooden spear- in a threatening manner to the man who had his face wrapped in a dusted cloth; leaving only his slanted-eyes visible, restless and full of wit, the eyes of an Asian.

"Move aside!" the youth said in his grown up voice, still trying to figure out with whom he was dealing with. The stranger, who had appeared out of nowhere, beckoned for him to follow. A weird unexpected gesture.

His first instinct was to refuge, but hearing the men of the Saracen lord fast approaching and with his -already few- options dwindling, Philip decided that perhaps it was for the better to find out what exactly the man wanted of him.

So he followed the newcomer not completely convinced he was doing the right thing, as he led his mule through paths un-trodden by human foot in a deeper part of the small forest. The dense trees there could hide them from the mounted group of men fast approaching their previous position, so in a way the man proved he knew what he was doing.

The Asian, Philip had decided he could be of no other origin, because he vaguely remembered a family of them visiting the blacksmith's hovel some seasons ago, jumped from his saddle and pulled a strange very long sword from a scabbard. It looked like a longsword, but it's blade was milky white -which was the strangest color for steel if he'd ever seen one- and with a straight ruby-colored line running its length. The grip of the sword was made of an unusual also white wood that looked a lot like marble and was wrapped around with a thin piece of leather. Holding the said weapon in his left hand, the Asian pointed to the spot where he had decided to wait for Azis not so long ago.

"Bravery is not consistent always, with intelligence." He said to him with that odd foreign accent in Gaelic. It was a language the boy hadn't heard for many years. Not since his caravan had perished and he had wandered in the Saracen lands.

"How do you know, I'm not from these lands?" the boy asked. Not an unfair question in his mind. I mean he was dirty, his skin extremely tanned/burned and his once blond hair, looked... well anything but blond. The man chose not to respond immediately. Kneeling he placed on the ground a well-made leather bag and produced from its insides what looked like a small metal container. Without hesitation he secured the small container in a broad pocket on the side of his coat and closed the bag up again. The man worked swiftly and his moves were measured and well-rehearsed.

From somewhere afar the horsemen were heard passing them by and the boy sighed half-relieved.

But then again that meant no trap or any other confrontation were to happen and _I'll have to find another opportunity,_ he thought, a grimace of frustration marring his young face. Philip glared at the Asian, who appeared to listen to the sounds of the woods, not paying him any attention whatsoever.

That is until he'd talked without turning his way.

"Difficult..."

For a moment he pouted his lips unsure whether the man was even talking to him. But seeing they were only the two of them...

"What do you mean?"

The Asian put the odd sword back on the animal ignoring him. Almost a full minute later and with the boy ready to repeat the question fearing the old man had missed it, he'd answered him.

"Six or seven men," the man explained "what could possibly make you think you'd manage such a task by yourself?"

Which was creepy and strange on so many levels.

"How do you know I was going to attack them?" Philip wondered not trying to hide his amazement.

"The quietness..." the Asian said earnestly and gestured him to listen in turn, to the sounds of the forest. He did but couldn't hear anything. The man was right, whatever animal sheltered in these woods had scared away from them. He smiled realizing what the older man meant.

"You're some kind of a warrior then?" Philip blurted out more than a little impressed. For the first time the Asian let an emotion appear on his -now uncovered- face. At first he appeared amused. Then his face relaxed a little more and the hint of a smile parked on his lips.

"The careful man is stronger than any warrior, whilst the careless man is prey to the youngest hunter." The man replied enigmatically, his accent making it difficult for him to concentrate on his words anyway that small grin still on his tattered face "You could have been German I suppose, a servant of the Holy Roman Empire, but then your cause couldn't have been an attack on the Saracens, at a time they have joined forces. Also you luck the accent. From your hair and eyes alone, you could not have been anything other a child of Gaul." He continued, explaining finally, the reason he had spoken to him in his language.

"Oh yeah? What about you? what are you doing in this land?" The boy asked. That wicked grin never left the Asian's face. He casted a side-glance to his mule as if checking for his reaction or permission -although that would have been absurd- before he replied.

"What I am is unimportant. I do not look for anything other than knowledge and if a name is what you ask for, then that name would be Xe."

Which of course didn't make any sense to him.

"Che?"

The man snorted displeased.

"Xe. Pay attention boy."

Philip sulked his lips insulted.

"Is setting traps all you do?' The man asked him, adding. "Is there a reason behind it at least?"

"I look for revenge." Philip spat out a bit too strong.

Xe raised a grey brow and stared at him. He had lost that small grin now.

"You seek revenge from the Saracens?" He inquired making it sound like a stupid idea or something, _which it was not._

The words just blurted out of his mouth.

"One of them grabbed a girl I know.' Which was close to the truth but not quite. 'They send word in her writing. A Saracen lord, perhaps you know of him, his name is Azis and his team is supposedly protecting the passing convoys. He has done anything but that, the past months."

The Asian frowned at his words. He probed him for more information.

"He grabbed her, you say?"

"Yes and then left a letter in her writing to meet them back there. A publican read it to me. Said it was all my fault in the first place." The youth added, leaving out the part where the villagers had almost given him, beaten and tied up to the Saracens to avoid a bloody raid as repercussion. "I want to fix what I broke."

"I can imagine what you mean. But are you sure you are not trying more here, to impress a certain girl with a careless act of valor, a girl that maybe laughed herself, at your initial advances?"

And that too of course, although hearing it from the man sounded so much worse.

Philip felt his blood rushing to his face at his words. He picked up the wooden pole and turned his burnt gimlet edge against Xe. The man laughed this time, freely and from the heart, without being bothered by the seemingly close-risk predicament.

"Is this a joke to you?" He spat angrily at him.

"The ignorant man insults only of himself" Xe answered over his laughter. His words troubling and twofaced per usual so narrowing his eyes the boy gave him a serious glare to show him he meant business. Then he asked.

"What do you mean by that?"

The stranger examined his rosy face, his eyes penetrating and cunning as if he was weighting him up.

"Follow me," he said after a moment "and later perhaps I will explain to you." Xe turned his back and in a simple but fluid move, jumped on the mule. The animal sniffed loudly, seeming really upset by his weight, but it turned its ugly head and started moving slowly towards the direction that was indicated by its rider. The boy put down the wooden pole and watched him dumbfounded leaving the forest.

"Hey," Philip shouted at his back "where the hell are you going?" and as the man didn't show that he'd heard him; he started running behind him trying to catch up. "I'm talking to you..." he said as he approached him again. The Asian just turned his body over the saddle of the animal. Those slanted eyes examined him again carefully. First his face, then the wooden pole, his torn dirty clothes... He seemed rather disappointed from the whole picture, which didn't come as a surprise to him.

"What is your name, young Gaul man?" He asked finally.

"Everyone is calling me Philip...' He replied proudly wishing he sounded older than what he looked and then in a much softer tone, lowering his eyes 'I bear no other name or title." Which was probably obvious but he thought better to get it out of the way. His answer surprisingly pleased the Asian.

"Philip, without another title then." Xe declared pompously and then as if he had just decided it at that moment, slight hint of smile back on his lips, he asked in a more official manner "Do you wish to accompany me in my mission?"

Although his strange accent made him sound funny and anything but official. Still the way he had said it sounded extremely exciting to the boy.

Philip blinked once, his eyes shining full of energy.

"And what is your mission?" He asked trying not to appear too needy, immediately firing a second question "What is it in for me, if I do?" because Tom was always telling him to value his effort.

That too seem to please the Asian. Which was also strange because people rarely entered in serious conversation with him. Philip kept his face as professional as he could not wanting to blow his chance.

"Reputation...' Xe replied finally in the same official manner. Which wasn't what he'd expected to hear. Reputation sounded like so much cooler than half a bag of yellow rise, which was what he'd intended to ask. Philip fell silent and looked at him with hopeful puppy eyes. 'wealth and titles." Xe added, which was even more astonishing in so many ways and the boy decided to stop him from speaking further right there, nodding his head up and down, excitement oozing from the pores of his body.

"Okay." He replied quickly afraid that Xe was going to regret his offer and take it back. The man had to realize at some point that he was offering him way too much for his services.

"There's just something that you would have to agree on' The Asian continued. Suspicion appeared in the eyes of the youth. _There,_ Philip thought _, here goes, he regrets it already._ 'you will have to follow my instructions. That means forgetting for a while about your revenge." He supplemented looking at him carefully, waiting for his reaction.

Philip was puffing calmer now, all suspicion gone. That was easy and it was not that he loved the bitch or something. Maybe a little, but we're talking wealth here! Which is like a lot of money surely and food and... so many other things he couldn't remember right now. Then another thought troubled him. _Better to check it out_ , his logic insisted.

"How long is it then, _'for a while'_?" He finally asked playing it safe.

Xe turned back and sat normally on the saddle of his mule. His answer when it did come, was barely audible.

"That you will have to find out for yourself."

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(Near Batalyaws, January 966 AD)

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The wind blew again and sharp icy needles pricked his flesh. The road was hard and difficult to travel. Frozen mud had become a deadly trap, if only for a minor slip of the foot and you could end up wholly covered in it. Your wet clothes would then become your tomb in a matter of a few agonizing minutes.

"Goddess, I can't breathe maybe we should stop." Said Philip, trying to see where the Asian man had disappeared; he was riding the stubborn mule just in front of him. One minute he was there and other he was gone.

Philip thought the short man did that a lot. Ever since they had managed to escape the Saracens at al-tagr al-Awsat that damn son-of-a-whore Azis, had succeeded in finding them again outside Tulaytulah; The night had saved them for one more time, but they were forced to drift further from the west lands and the Kingdom of Leon, deep into the Moors territory. There the winter had finally caught up with them and now they were traveling slower than ever, tired and sleepless _, an easy prey._

Philip stopped _,_ his back had just announced with a sharp pain that made him loose his footing, that this was too much travelling for one day. He dropped the big leather bag on the soft snow and rubbed his hands together, trying to bring heat through friction, but it was pointless, the cold wind was hitting him from all sides and his feet had already started freezing.

"Damn my horse!" He cursed aloud and tried again to locate the figure of the Asian alas with no luck. _Well that is just great_ , he thought frustrated, realizing he had to build a fire by himself. Shivers run through him and his stomach growled angrily, he felt miserable, but with no way around the problem, he let out a sigh and started gathering fallen wood with shaky hands. After a while he'd made a small pile with it, near a big snow-covered tree. He managed to start a small fire and situated himself near the flames to gather its warmth. The fire lulled him, his eye lids grew heavier and tiredness overcame him.

The sound of a mount waked him of his stupor. He realized he'd slept for a while, the night, dark and cold had fallen around him. His fire had gone out and only some half burned chunks of wood remained, fainting slowly as the wind was blowing on them. He gathered his legs and slowly stood upright, contemplating on the origin of the sound. _Was it a single horse?_ An animal drifting alone, a lucky occurrence surely, but then luck was never on his side of the table. The night remained silent giving him no clues.

He picked up his bag which was as heavy as a chunk of rock and moved behind the big frozen tree, thinking that its trunk, well over a meter could hide him for a while. His pole was on the mule and he had no other weapon to defend himself. He cursed the Asian again, in his mind. The anger actually made him feel a little better, and then he heard it again.

A numb noise, like metal rubbing against cloth or leather, was coming from the start of the small horseroad, about ten meters from him. He bowed and tried to get a better look, still hiding behind the tree. _There was something there alright_. Standing at the edge of the road, it looked like an animal, but it was difficult to tell in the dark. A horse maybe but without a rider, its saddle was empty, he suddenly became nervous. _Where had the rider gone?_ Too many questions and it seemed, he wasn't going to get any answers soon. He exhaled slowly; his breath formed a cloud in front of his face and decided to move.

Quietly using a foot at a time, he backtracked towards the forest. Walking as silently as he could, the boy tried to put as much distance as it was possible between him and the rider. He was maybe fifty meters away and deeper in the forest, when he heard the voices. Men, speaking with singing Moorish words, the tongue of the Saracens and they were close, very close. It was strange he hadn't heard them till that moment.

His mind and body became numb with fear. He stood there between the trees frozen, trying to become invisible. They had camped on the other side of the small forest, just outside the tree line. Their fires burned big and strong, lighting the surrounding area. Fortunately he was still afar and too deep in the trees for their lights to catch him. He glanced at their faces; hard but so full of wit, some of them had trimmed beards and wore silk turbans, on their heads. They were well dressed, with rich leather pants and coats and had blankets wrapped around them to keep them warm. He counted twelve riders, fifteen horses or more. It was a patrol; they were undoubtedly Azis's men and had almost found them.

Deciding that it was much easier to face one man than a dozen, he turned around and started walking as fast as he could towards the other side of the woods. But it seemed that his bad luck had no end. His feet didn't obey him, half frozen and tired from the long journey mostly on foot, after a couple of meters he stumbled. A broken branch, buried deep in the snow, tripped him. He started falling, opening his hands to grab on to something and finding only more branches filled with snow, _slippery little devils_ that cracked under his weight and didn't stopped him at all. Philip went down breaking branches around him, the snow blinding him temporality, until the hard ground met him; hard, icy-wet and painful. He moaned and for a moment he stayed there on the hard soil, branches and snows half-covering him, the whole right side of his face burning from the impact. A dull pain on his right angle and the bag painfully hard on his back completed his quick survey of his body. But his condition wasn't the biggest of his problems. The men had stopped talking. No sound was coming from their camp. They had heard his fall, he thought his panic returning, he was doomed.

"If a stronger enemy is confidently relaxed for the night, leave him so. Disturbing him, in any manner, is bordering stupidity." Said a familiar voice, quite but clear; he sighed relieved.

The Asian was there right next to him, helping him up. He had taken the heavy bag and given him his wooden pole. Philip grabbed it with both hands and turned his head towards the camp, trying to see if the Moorish men were coming.

"They are just men." The Asian pointed out and gestured him to follow quietly. He complied walking with his eyes fixed on the hard soil; unwilling to fall again. He was limping lightly and his face burned like hell. "They can't hear better, than you or me" the small bodied man said and then as an afterthought he added. "Well, you definitely, for me old self I'm not as sure."

Philip gave him a scowl and tried to walk as silent as he could, following him through the woods, toward the edge where he had built his now dead fire and saw the mule was there waiting for them. _And_ _of course, he was the rider from before_ , Philip thought, anger rising in him.

"Why didn't you just say something?" he whined, while walking with increasing difficulty, as they reached the animal.

"I didn't want to give away our position. Making _some_ noise in the woods, is a thing one can forget. The sound of a man's voice on the other hand, is something else entirely."

He answered him plainly, as if it was _that_ simple. But then it was for Xe, Philip thought, it was... that simple.

.

_

"Who goes there?" the voice had brought him back to reality. A man was blocking their path, wearing a heavy overcoat over his robes. _A Saracen_ , he thought _, hidden behind the mule_. "Is this your animal?" the man asked and he made a step forward to have a better look at them.

"Keep walking Philip." Xe whispered and gave him a shove when he hesitated that almost threw him back on the ground. Cursing him inside, unable to step on his damaged foot and using his pole as a crude cane he kept walking towards the dark figure of the Saracen. The Asian fell back behind him.

Two meters from him he noticed the ornamented saif he had in a scabbard and his mouth went dry. The man bend his head a little still trying to make out his face, strangely unworried by their presence. But then again he could always scream, he thought and his friends would come running to his aid.

Reluctantly Philip prepared himself to make the final two steps towards the man, wondering what in Goddess's name was the Asian's plan; if there was one that is.

"Get on your knees boy!" Xe ordered him with a harsh voice and he obeyed falling on his knees, the man in front of him sporting a dirty grin on his lips.

"A fine young piece of arse you have here—" the Saracen started saying but he stopped probably seeing something that had surprised him. Philip felt the sole of Xe's boot on his left shoulder and he moaned in pain as the man's weight came upon him for a very brief moment. The next Xe had jumped over his kneeled body having just used him as a lever and fell on the startled Saracen holding a knife.

They both went down but the Asian had managed to gain the upper hand. He stabbed him repeatedly on the side of his neck, his hot blood gushing out and melting the snow, until he stopped fighting him and his body went stiff.

A deathly silence followed as the Asian got up, not before cleaning his knife on the dead man's clothes, as if the night was holding its breath. Then Philip that had witnessed dazzled the whole ordeal broke it.

"You could have warned me!" He protested a little too loud.

"Silence young man." Xe scolded him annoyed. "Else him not crying out for help will be for naught."

Frowning Philip decided that as usual, the older man was right.

.

(Four days later)

.

Philip had finished tying the bandage on his ankle; he didn't do as good a job with it as the Asian had done the previous days, but at least it was stable and fortunately the damn ankle looked well enough to step on it. Xe had put some kind of healing salve on it, which stung like goat-piss by the way, but it had helped so again, he couldn't really complain.

The Saracens had lost them during the night and they hadn't spotted them for days since. It seemed as if the danger was away, for awhile anyway.

"Why do they keep pursuing us?"

The Asian looked at him, his eyes narrowed almost closing as if he was not pleased, making him wonder if he could see anything at all when he did that; he was still cleaning the blade of his strange sword. He had two of them. The one he was now holding, Philip called the white and the other, the one he always kept in its scabbard on the mule, at all times, he'd named the wolf because its handle, well... was sculpted in the shape of what looked a lot like a wolf. He'd never allowed him to touch the weapons. He was almost religious with them. Meticulously cleaning them all the time, praying and even talking to them at times, when he thought that Philip was not looking; it was crazy in his eyes, but he kept his opinions to himself.

"Let's just say that in a way, they work for the Caliph." The Asian said and he tried to understand how this could answer his previous question. He waited expecting Xe to say something more.

It turned out to be a fruitless action and a senseless waste of his time.

"Do you care to elaborate?" he asked when he realized that Xe was not going to say anything else (period), to him.

"Azis is working for Al-Hakam the 2nd the Caliph of Cordoba." the man said _. One of the most powerful men in Moorish's lands_ , Philip thought. But he didn't exactly felt satisfied.

"So?" he asked.

"Well,' Xe explained patiently, which was a pleasant surprise 'you shouldn't have tried to save the girl. It was a trap. I bet that she was in on it or something close; gold can turn the heart of any woman. Or man."

"A trap, but they'd had her already, what could they possibly gain by engaging me as well?"

Xe rose to his feet and placed the sword in its scabbard. He looked at it for a moment, as if he was trying to decide something.

Okay it was a rather longish moment. A _'Xe moment'_.

"I'm going to let you from morrow... start using my sword." He said to him, with a steady serious voice. But his accent was there and it made his words sound a little funny to his ears, not that Philip was going, ever, to tell him that. "It is time, to learn a skill boy. It will help you, in many a ways. And of course it is an enormous honor to wield such a weapon." His eyes were fixed on him and he became a little nervous "I hope you will show the proper respect."

Was he talking about his exotic swords?

"I will" he answered quickly. Philip didn't understand what had changed the Asian's mind. "I will respect everything that you teach me always." He sugarcoated it. Whatever it was he was not going to ruin it by over-thinking about changing moods or whatever. He wanted to learn the sword, and he wanted to be a better warrior, seeing that he considered himself one already. Xe would teach him, and come morrow he was going to hold that beautiful sword in his hands. That was pure bliss.

Oh Goddess.

.

__

The man standing opposite him across the large fireplace, was watching him intently. Disturbed by his persistence he turned towards him and stared in his eyes. But the weapon-bearer wasn't deterred by his obvious anger. Damn fool, Dar'Ible thought. A light smirk had appeared on the warrior's lips for a second but when he'd spoken his voice was deadly serious.

" _I know what you are thinking.' He said adding. 'you will not do it."_

" _Don't tell me what I can't do." The demon answered him letting his anger shown "That never goes well for you."_

" _This isn't our time 'yellow eyes' or more importantly our realm." The weapon-bearer insisted using a term he disdained._

" _Don't call me that' he growled, wanting to hurt him furious that he couldn't as you can't hurt what isn't real. 'I'm so much more than what you people think, you can't even imagine the things I can do. What I did."_

" _I know exactly what you did. It is why we lost everything, the reason we will stay imprisoned until the end of time."_

" _NEVER!' He cried out standing up. His soul was burning with rage, so much rage, he felt it boiling underneath wanting to rip through his flesh and get out. 'I will break free." He added his impotence maddening him._

" _How will you do that?"_

" _I will find a way. Just as I did with her.' the weapon-bearer now had a disgusted look on his face, it was the demon's turn to smile deviously. 'yes I see you still remember. A way,' he repeated turning his attention back to the young boy 'when no one is looking or when everything near him is already dead."_

__

The wind was blowing again, freezing his ears as he tried for a second time to pull the old rooted branch from the frozen soil. He scratched his hands worse than before and the bitter pain almost drowned him in the wells of frustration.

"God-fucking-damn-it!"

He kicked it hard with his right leg and it broke with a cracking sound. He pulled it free at last and puffed heavily from the exertion, hating his life that very moment. Philip wished for a warm fireplace and a clean set of clothes and food; he had eaten enough boiled roots or whatever-the-hell the Asian was feeding them, to last him a lifetime. He wanted fresh bread and white cheese... He stopped his salivating thoughts instantly.

Fuck.

Something was directly behind him.

He heard a low animal growl. _Not too big to be a bear not too soft to be a dog_ , he thought cursing his luck as he turned towards the sound.

It had orange eyes. They were locked upon him with such intensity, he almost backed away involuntarily. The large grey wolf curled its lips and showed him his incisors growling this time in a more menacing tone. He didn't move a muscle.

His mind jumped years back, a faded memory of a similar beast hunting a younger version of himself through the woods. He was a boy then and scared out of his wits but Philip didn't feel much braver now.

Stiff as a board he watched as the erect predator's ears turned right and left as if trying to locate a distant coming sound. He couldn't hear anything himself; except his heart beating like a drum in his chest and the only thing he could see was the fur of the angry wolf in front of him bristle.

_Not the same wolf_ , he kept repeating in his mind, the words of the man that had loaned him his name returning. _Them beasts do that boy._

They always come back.

A moment passed. Then another.

The wolf was still watching him with those peculiar eyes, but the hatred in its glare was now gone. A howling was heard from somewhere afar and the wolf turned its head towards the direction of his camp. _Was someone coming?_ He shifted his body and saw the broken branch at his feet. _Could he make a grab for it?_ It was a brave thought and he readied his muscles to attempt it feeling nothing like a hero; he was more than relieved when he realized that he didn't have to, as with a last glare the wolf turned its long body and left him disappearing behind the snow covered trees.

He stayed there still, trying to calm his battered nerves and hearing his heartbeat slowing down until the equally deadly cold forced him to pick up that damn branch and return to their camp.

.

They were camping inside a mountain cave. Working fast they had built a small fire on the mouth of the cave and they'd used their only two blankets to make two cots for the night. Philip, having chosen to avoid speaking to the Asian about the incident with the wolf, was already lying down when the Asian returned from whatever chores he was doing to retire himself for the night.

"You've never told me, why the Saracens wanted me to know they had Tejra." He said picking up a different subject, in an attempt to burn off the earlier incident from his memory. He turned his body towards Xe, but the cave was too dark and he couldn't see him clearly.

"Because she'd told them, that she knew a boy from the west lands. A young blond boy with green eyes. How old are you now, thirteen? I am sure they were, very interested."

"I'm fourteen." Philip corrected him unable to hide his embarrassment. "I'm not a boy anymore; I've lived on my own, for as long as I remember, I—"

"You've lived like a beggar, a troublemaker, you were extremely lucky to still be alive and free, when I've found you."

Philip didn't answer him, the cave was dark, the small fire illuminating strange shadows that were dancing near its entrance, but they were further inside and light couldn't reach them.

"But what of it?" he finally asked, when he regained some of his composure "Why are they hunting me?"

The Asian made a muffled sound, probably irritated by his ignorance.

"They are not hunting _only you_ , I heard the Caliph keeps an all male harem, and his people always try to make him such gifts. A western boy could bring Azis a small fortune."

"So Azis, wanted me to become a whore for his ruler?" Philip's face was burning hot, his embarrassment had grown to a new level.

"There are worst fates..." Xe replied sounding disinterested and Philip almost growled at that. "... a man or a woman could face. You better sleep, it is late."

Sleep was the last thing on Philip's mind.

"I will kill him; I swear that I'll kill him."

He was angry and ashamed and he could barely get the words out. His mind was racing at the possibilities. _They'd almost had me_ , he thought. _If only Xe hadn't shown up, when he did..._

"Thank you." He told him honestly, his voice cracking a little as he tried to maintain his composure. Philip tried to slow his breathing, black out everything from his mind, not an easy task all of a sudden and relax into the warm blanket. It'd taken him a while but finally his eyes closed and sleep claimed his tired body.

The cave was dark and silent around him.

"Sleep now little-Philip with no other title," Xe said after a while but he didn't hear him "Don't thank me, for I gave you not an easier fate."

.

(Winter of 966 AD the River Exe, a day's ride from Exeter, England.)

The men were coming from Clyst, six archers and twelve men wearing chainmail armors, carrying wooden shields and swords. They stopped their horses near the bank of the river Exe and waited. The messenger had said, the last day of November; a strange request, as it was not the time of the season to go on traveling or anything else for that matter.

Snow was falling again, the cold freezing their horses and they had to cover them up with blankets to protect them. They were already nervous and the appearance of the large battle-dressed grey stallion, minutes later, made them almost unsure about the whole affair. The man that approached them riding the strong animal was almost a giant, at least six-feet and seven inches tall, wearing a black scaled-metal hauberk, a mailed cuisse that covered his legs along with metal gauntlets in his hands and a steel full faced Spangenhelm that had two eye holes. His whole armor was a polished coal-black; none of the men had ever seen this type of full-body armour before. He looked like a Byzantine Cataphract, but there was no heavy cavalry in their lands, not since the Roman times. One of them decided to speak, before they all froze to death.

"Will you state your business, noble sir?"

The knight looked at him but they couldn't see his eye pupils, concealed inside the holes of his helmet and his voice when he answered was strangely unclear, like it was coming from a very long distance. A voice from a distance that unnerved them all the more; but it was a strong guttural voice that grasped their attention, nonetheless.

" _War... is... coming._ " The Knight said. Several of the men tried to answer him at once.

"You mean the Danes?"

"Is this why you've summoned us?"

"We can't fight them on our own."

The knight remained silent through this. His horse shot clouds of steam from its nostrils; the cold was becoming stronger with each passing minute. The men stopped talking after a while and stared at him nervously. One of them cleared his throat and voiced another question.

"We are going to get paid in gold, your messenger had said us. Is this true?" The Knight pushed his horse to move forward and the large animal made a few steps towards them. He lowered his head a little as if to speak. The men waited, but no sound came out of him. They became alarmed all of a sudden; their horses sensing an invisible danger neighed and some of them even reached for their weapons.

Something had changed.

It was not snowing anymore. The cold had retreated in a strange manner. It was as if winter was gone. Then the wind came carrying the knight's voice. A hot, desert wind, which heated the icy waters of the river and made the ground moisture to become a thick vapor mist; it covered them, making it difficult to see at two feet, the animals became extremely restless and some of the men thought that the knight had almost disappeared in that mist for a moment.

" _True... payment... will be made_." That voice had said. " _True... the Danes... will come... and destroy... this place._ " The men looked at each other " _True... you will... go to war... with me. You will... help me... change... this time._ "

Then the wind had died out.

But the voice remained for a while, its words dancing around them. It had said great many things. They had listened with their eyes glowing, their lust for his promises growing with each passing second.

The voice fainted and then it was gone.

The men had followed him. They rode together into that strange mist. Gone. They were not to be seen again for three straight years.

.

(Silb, April of 966 AD)

Philip downed forcefully, pulling at the same time the odd sword (the Asian was calling it the 'Le sang que bouillir' or simply 'Sang Bouillir'); He did it exactly, as he had been shown many times by Xe, the man he followed the last few months without ever really knowing whether this was even his real name.

The blade went down fast. With its characteristic red line, which ran from its base splitting it and uniting it at the same time into two equal parts, starting low after the ivory handle and finishing just before its tip. The line had the color and feel of a real ruby although that seemed impossible, after all Philip had seen these precious stones at a festival in Cald two years back and their shape was completely different. No this was something else, something alien. The blade passed easily through the heavy wooden trunk, which was placed upright for him to practice in the backyard of the boarding house.

A large portion of the trunk was separated and rolled on the ground, next to many more irregularly shaped pieces of wood. This time he had managed an almost perfect hit and a smile appeared on his lips.

.

(They lived in there for the past several months.

They'd spent six months from the time they had left behind the Saracens and the warband of Azis traveling west, crossing the Moors country and continued thus reaching finally more well-governed places near the sea. Here the presence of the Arabs was even more pronounced, the order they imposed had a positive impact on local trade. The gangs were fewer, the people calmer, more cultured. That didn't mean though that there was no danger.

_Philip had spent his time learning the art of the sword, but despite his apparent improvement in handling it, Xe did not allow him to use it in any of the three or four skirmishes they had encountered in their way. 'The risk is great...' was the fond saying of the older man and he always chose for them to retreat, maneuver and evade. It was frustrating_.)

.

Philip was unable to understand what was in the mind of his companion. His words sounded often very strange to his ears, incomprehensive in their meaning. He touched the pommel of the sword on his belly and then lifted it slowly holding the handle with both hands, as Xe had instructed, until the cold blade came between his eyes almost touching the tip of his nose.

Making a sudden movement using only his wrists he wield it hearing the blade slashing through the air making a beautiful little sound. Focused he slowly lifted the sword again using both his hands over his head and then lowered it just over his right shoulder. Philip breathed out and then lowered his hands again, forcing the sword down and across him in a semi-circular orbit that met the wooden block dead on its center. The wood was torn right in the middle. The blade had passed through it without meeting any resistance, as if he'd just cut a soft piece of pig fat. Now that was a perfect hit. Philip smiled satisfied, pleased with himself. _How about that old man?_

_Rule your weapon and let it not rule you..._ Xe kept saying to him, every single time he tried to force him to learn something new.

That moment the boy felt he'd finally begun to realize what gaining full control of his weapon meant. Philip felt like he had his hands on the reins of his life for the first time and _damn if he was to let go._

.

' _The man sitting by the fireplace remained silent watching the Weapon-Bearers continuing their unending game of cards. Time was unimportant to them, irrelevant and they were blessed in their ignorance. Dar'Ible snorted disturbed, angry with himself._

For he knew what the men didn't.

Nothing was real.'

.

"Can I use the other sword now?" Philip asked and Xe just grunted, his aging face appearing dissatisfied at his persistence. "I think it has more grip to it."

"You think the sword you're using is beneath you boy?"

"I'm not saying that. I just thought—"

Xe stopped him midsentence.

"Grave mistake. Now isn't the time for you to think. Now you must train."

Philip grimaced unhappy.

"You know that wasn't exactly the deal you've made with me." He said raising a blond eyebrow.

Xe frowned.

"No?"

"Come on now. Fame, wealth and titles." He stared him seriously. "I haven't forget."

"How can you be famous, when you cannot wield a sword like a master?"

"I'm plenty good."

"Plus are you not wealthier than you were?"

Considering that he was living in the streets...

"Well yes, but... you know what I'm talking about!" Now he was angry.

"You must be patient. More will come in time."

_Be patient,_ Philip groaned mentally.

"Why do they call you Xe?"

"It's a name."

"No it's not."

"Sometimes reaching back can hurt a man."

Great more sayings.

"Can't you give me a simple answer?"

"How did you lose your parents boy?" Xe asked him taking the sword off his hands.

"They were killed in a Viking raid." Now _that_ he didn't like to recall. He stared at the old warrior annoyed. "They weren't my real parents."

"Mmm... what happened to the real ones?"

Philip's eyes dropped on the ground, a pout had appeared on his boyish face.

"I don't know." _Should I say more?_ he thought. "Sometimes I dream of strange things and have this feeling I'm not from this land."

"You are not." Xe smiled seeing his surprise. "You are probably from way North Philip."

"Maybe."

"I've lost my family too.' The old warrior told him a moment later. 'we have this in common boy."

"Were they lost in a raid?" Philip asked raising his head.

Xe snorted a grimace of disgust on his face.

"They were lost to greed." The man replied simply.

"Greed of what?"

Xe crooked his mouth in a half-smile.

"The three things you expect from me Philip will gain you something more. People will want it. Friends will betray you for it. Lovers even family."

Philip looked at him puzzled.

"Nothing is that important."

Xe stared at the white blade of the sword he held in his hands strangely. His voice barely reached the boy's ears.

"Power is."

.

(Silb, March 967 AD)

.

The Asian was in the barn feeding his mule in the mouth. He called it _'the Emperor'_ but only the goddess knew why, as the animal had manners that were very far from imperial. _A man could search the whole world and never come upon a more wayward animal than this_. As if it had its own thoughts and practices, it seemed to have always a different view on everything; from the road that they should follow, to when they would stop for water or rest. _Emperor,_ he thought shaking his head, _menace on four legs more likely and that was way more fitting a name for the ugly animal._

The 'Emperor' gave out a distinctive sound, something between a neigh and the screaming of a dissonant tenor, when he saw him passing from the entrance to the inside of the stall of the pension. Hearing it Xe turned toward him and his small slanted eyes pinned him in a silent examination.

"The rapid completion of a task doesn't always bring the best results." He said in his familiar disapproving way. He seemed to have a saying ready for anything that happened to them, as if he was living under a code, following rules set in a book or as if he was the said book. Philip made a note to contemplate more on that later.

"I did what I was supposed to do, I cannot possibly become any better training the same moves all the time Xe and really, it's been over a year..." he replied and extended his hand intending to pet the head of the mule, but the animal sensed him coming and became irritated. The Emperor turned and tried to bite his hand. He quickly pulled his hand away and heard the mule's teeth rattle as it bitten hard at the air. Philip cursed its horse mother.

"You have to do something about your mule", he said indicatively to Xe, who pretended to be surprised by his sudden outbreak. "He is becoming rather dangerous and that's putting it lightly, to keep around."

"I never felt any real danger in his company." The short man said sporting a small grin, explaining nothing as usual and also not helping as if he was doing it on purpose. The answer brought a triumphant whinny from the 'Emperor'. Philip rolled his eyes in desperation.

"Here now, you cajole it instead of giving it the stick. You will be responsible of a future, I fear possibly fatal misunderstanding between us, if your donkey does manage to bite off my hand or any other part of me." He told him glaring at the cursed animal.

"Mule...' the Asian corrected him. 'from the imperial stables of his Majesty's—"

"Whatever." A loathed Philip stopped him, his attention returning to the mule.

The wayward animal showed him all his large white teeth in a menacing smile. It was as if it was warning him and he could hear its words in his mind ' _you just got lucky, next time you won't be'._ Judging by the size and strength of those teeth, he was convinced that it will probably make good on its threat and decided to keep away from it as much as it was possible. _The careful man is stronger than any warrior_ , wasn't that what Xe was preaching anyway?

"Come, we have to see someone today" the Asian prompted him unaware of his thoughts. "It is important."

.

(Three hours later)

The tail of the mule failed once more to hit the gold-bodied fly, which was giving it such a hard time. The characteristic sound it made pulled Philip out of his languor. He looked ahead amidst the elms and wild shrubs, to the point where the road parted forming the Latin "Y" letter.

The man that Xe expected was standing there, riding a jet-black stallion. The first thing the youth noticed was the gauntlets on the foreigner's hands. The iron gloves of a Knight. A hood was covering his head, a dark dusty cloak the rest of his body. The reins of his horse were full of silver ornaments and as he pulled them, the animal gave a nervous neigh, blowing the air from his nostrils in the form of steam clouds.

His voice came then, hoarse like a chain dragged on a paved prison runway, it murdered the quietness once and for all.

"Your Lordship you are present? Manifest yourself..."

Before Philip had the time to filter his question, Xe moved gently tapping with his feet the sides of the _'Emperor'_. The Asian came out into the clearing and approached the stranger, who was clearly wearing the heavy armor of a Frankish Knight. He followed behind him and approached in turn the imposing man. The Knight lowered his hood and removed with difficulty a closed round helmet. Wild brown hair and a long beard covered now his face and all Philip could see clearly was the man's eyes. They were a light blue, the color of the clear skies.

Xe said something in an unknown tongue and the man replied in the same manner. Philip could not understand what they were saying, but the man turned his eyes upon him, full of disbelief.

"So you're Xe's assistant now... times do change." Said the stranger

Philip chose not to respond to that.

"You got a horse, laddie?" asked the stranger. Philip blushed and stared at his worn out shoes. "Maybe we should help you find one..." the man continued.

"No horse, mule better..." Philip heard Xe say. "They collaborate better." He added and finding it obviously very amusing, he started laughing by himself. The 'Emperor' mimicked him immediately producing in turn some very dissonant sounds. Philip was turning a deeper shade of red through all this.

"You will offend him your Lordship..." the stranger noticed and Xe seemed surprised by his comment. Gazing towards him, his discomfort about the whole situation apparent, he made a dismissive gesture.

"Philip with no other titles, is a lover of jokes and a patient man." He said with his strange voice and the youth cracked a smile, visibly relaxing.

"Yes," Philip said finally looking at both of them in turn "there is nothing that would really make me angry..." he added regretting it, the moment the last word escaped his mouth, as he usually got angry with almost...well, anything.

"Only fools do not feel any anger." The Knight observed disapprovingly not really surprising him and Xe seeing the appalled expression on Philip, tried but failed to keep a straight face letting a very strange comical laughter overwhelm him.

The Knight followed his example and started laughing freely looking at him first and then at the youth, who was staring both of them almost mesmerized. But there was no malice in their laughter and it wasn't long before Philip gradually started laughing himself, realizing as happy tears run down his cheeks, this was the first time he did so in seven years.

.

They were speaking of things he didn't understand and he was soon dosing off near the fire. _I shouldn't have had that wine_ , he thought, but he had and now he was feeling his head heavier than a sack of potatoes. He tried again to concentrate on what the two older men were discussing to conquer his boredom.

"In the summer', the knight was telling Xe, 'her father is sending her with an armed escort but knowing her callous brother, he won't lift a finger to secure her passage. You could help him you know."

"I haven't heard the best of things about him. It shows a weakness in his character not to have control over his own lands."

"He is still one of us my Lord. But I can't of course impose this on you."

"You know I am on a different mission."

The knight threw a glance at him and he pretended that he wasn't paying attention to them. He actually fooled him.

"He doesn't seem that special."

_Why, you son-of-a-cow_ , cursed Philip.

"He is brave and that is more than enough, he is not six and ten but his skill with the blade is that of a seasoned warrior. But pray tell me, why don't you help the governor?"

Philip was smiling pleased.

"The magister has me to do his bidding this time. Have you heard the rumors about him dealing with a walker—"

Xe beckoned him to hold his words and the Knight had spoken lower from that point onward.

Apparently he couldn't fool the Asian.

But the subject was kind of interesting, he thought, _in a freakish kind of way._ And boring too, because he couldn't hear a thing now and after a little while sleep claimed him.

.

(Several hours later, just before sunrise.)

"Stay here Philip,' Xe told him before entering the local blacksmith's workshop to do whatever it was they were going to do. Philip stared the empty street for a couple of minutes then got bored and closed his tired eyes for a moment almost falling asleep on his feet.

"Dammit,' he cried out and fought to keep his eyelids open, an extremely difficult task when they are not in the mind to cooperate. 'I need more sleep, I mean I'm still growing for fuck's sake. Nobody conducts his business at such ungodly hours!"

"What business is that young man?" A pale faced Arab asked startling the life out of him. The man was standing next to a horse trough and Philip was dead certain he wasn't there a minute ago.

"I think you had dozed off for a while before." The stranger said as if he had read his thoughts.

"No I hadn't."

"No judgment here,' He said and Philip noticed that his eyes were giving out a light glow in the dying night. 'myself I prefer living in the night.' _Okay,_ Philip thought. _Another fucking weirdo_. 'we are alike at that no?" the stranger added.

"Listen mister I'm not here alone. My friends will come out any second now." He said hoping to get rid of him. The Arab seemed shaken by his words.

"You are with them then?"

Philip didn't like the whole ' _with them'_ part.

"What is that supposed to mean?" his drowsiness was gone now and he hefted his makeshift pole ready to pick up a fight.

The Arab smiled having miraculously regained his composure.

"It means that you have still much to learn youngling. Perhaps when we next meet I will teach you."

"Maybe I'll teach you a thing or two myself. How would you like that huh?" Philip snapped and made a forward step to near him. The Arab still smiling bowed lightly his way.

"Apologies young friend. I wasn't trying to offend you."

"My name is Philip and I ain't your friend."

"And I am Simon. Pleased to meet you Philip.' The man said and then looking behind Philip towards the workshop he added, 'your friends are coming."

Philip turned to check if that was true but the door of the workshop was still closed shut. Annoyed with the stranger he opened his mouth to give him a piece of his mind, when the door opened wide and a frowned Xe stepped outside.

"What are you looking at?" The Asian asked seeing him standing openmouthed in front of him.

"This man—" He started to answer him then noticed that the said man was gone, which didn't help his case with the Asian.

"What are you saying? I could walk around naked in this street and no one would notice."

Forcing the picture out of his mind Philip answered a little offended.

"He was here just a second ago!"

Xe narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

"Did you sleep on your feet again?"

What?

"No I... listen whether you believe me or not, a man was here asking all kind of freaky questions about you and our business."

"Okay. What did you say to him?"

Philip wanted to hit him with his wooden pole and crack his head.

"Nothing. I said nothing to him."

Xe nodded signaling the Knight to come out.

"Then all is well." He said to him in an indifferent tone.

Philip decided to drop the whole matter. His head hurt, he doubted he could return to sleep seeing that the sun would come out any minute now and last but in no way least, he was so hungry he could eat a street rat.

Raw.

.

(The Knight stayed with them that night and the next one. He was gone with the first daylight of the third day and Philip never saw him again for a long time. He didn't even learn his name, until at a much later time, disproportionately later time. The mission, for which Xe had spoken to him vaguely seventeen months ago, required of them to be at a village near the Tagus River, and journey from there to al-Isbunah, the modern day city of Lisbon, in the summer of 968 AD and there was where that summer found them. That summer and fate ...)
.

(A village in Al–Garb,

120 km from the Tagus River,

March 968 AD)

.

It has been a very difficult year, they had left Silb, in the summer of 967 and they traveled following the seashores towards Tagus. They had stayed in a village and worked for a local Arab for about four months but by then the news that Azis al Qatil was returning from Cordoba had forced them to leave again before the colds of the winter trapped them there. They instead spent the winter traveling mostly during the night and stayed at small villages where the Moorish weren't as hostile. They worked the stables, manning the horses and helping with any chores the people had given them.

There was suspicion and a little fear in the eyes of the villagers. Xe was a rare sight for these people and Philip heard many of them whispering that he was practicing magic. The Asian never denied any of this allegations. He used to say that people will either be afraid of you or not. _"People wisely avoid whatever is that scares them"_ was his motto which he often accompanied with _"When they are not scared, they have an inclination to do foolish things"._

Philip was perfecting his skill with the sword in the meantime. He'd grown in height and his body filled up with muscles, but he was still skinny enough to look anything more than a very young man. Xe had also taught him how to move in a hand to hand combat situation; using an ancient art of fighting the Asian called shoubo, he'd learned to deliver crippling blows and avoid being hit in return. In all the time that Xe was teaching him, Philip hadn't managed to land a single blow on him. Usually after a couple of minutes of intense fighting he'd found himself down on his back or on his face and they will have to start from the beginning again. It was a very painful training. After a nasty fall had hurt his leg making walking a problem for a couple of weeks, Xe decided to rent them a room in a small village called Cerbel.

That same day they visited the local bazaar.

The Arab merchant was selling horses. He had a couple of stallions and six mares of various ages. The animals were tamed and looked rather impressive to Philip.

"We would like to buy a horse." He heard Xe ask the merchant with his comic voice. The man gave him a boring look trying to evaluate his belongings but he seemed to be more interested in Philip than anything else.

"Do you want to trade or pay in coin?" He asked speaking in Moorish. Philip knew little of the language but he understood him.

"How much do you want for the brown mare?" The Arab still had his black eyes on Philip; he seemed to consider the question for a moment.

"I will give you a stallion for your boy." He finally said his eyes full of interest.

"The boy is not for sale."

The Arab laughed at that and Philip felt anger rise in him, he didn't understand everything, but he could understand enough to know that the merchant was interested in him in a very disturbing way. His stomach turned at the thought.

"Everything is for sale; all things have a price, yellow man." The Merchant said.

"So does the mare, how much is it then?"

"5 dirham's." said the merchant.

"I will give you a gold dinar for her." The Asian answered.

"4 dirham's is a fair price I say." The Arab smiled at him but his eyes were on Philip, who gave him a scowl trying to calm his temper.

"One gold dinar and a silver dirham, horses we can find more, gold comes by harder." The Asian bargained with him.

The Merchant seemed to ponder on that and then he sighed in fake disappointment.

"A gold dinar and two dirham's and the mare is yours." He finally said. Xe was already holding out his coin purse.

"I thank you for the bargain." He said to the merchant respectfully.

The Arab nodded sporting a half smile, they had a deal.

Philip turned his eyes on the young mare relieved. The horse was tall with muscular legs. It had kind eyes and that alone would have been enough to make him like it.

The emperor as if sensing his thoughts gave him a nudge almost knocking him to the ground. Philip cursed the mule, under his teeth. Yep, he liked his horse already, he thought glaring at the mule with murderous eyes.

.

' _Draco, the youngest of the two Weapon-Bearers, stared him accusingly exactly as he used to do a great many years ago. Same face, Dar'Ible thought, amazed at his own skill, same character even down to his annoying self-righteousness. Always ready to contempt him for the Realm's suffering, never trusting him._

Dar'Ible grinned the points of his large mouth touching his ears, revealing the shark-like teeth underneath.

" _Go play with the others." He ordered him and the man disappeared from his face.'_

.
.

(West bank of the Tagus River,

August 968 AD)

.

' _The morning dew and the heavy humidity the night had brought made the grass to shine as if it was sprinkled with stardust. But the horses' hooves cut it as they dug in and shook the stardust away, mixed with black soil and small stones. The passage of the formal procession more than erased that shine from the ground. It destroyed it completely._

The riders arrived at the foots of the small hill and began climbing upward, with the noise they were causing continually growing. If it were perhaps a later time, it was about seven in the morning, the strong sun could have sent them a sign. A reflection on any of the weapons, the mirror image of a shield or a shining sword; something to allow them to be prepared, they were of course experienced men.

But it was still early, the sun mostly hidden, a gloomy dark morning and they were in a hurry ever since they'd seen the fires twenty minutes earlier. The first thing they noticed once the first riders reached the top of the small hill, was the dark figures of the Moors. Immediately after large arrows made from wooden sticks with sharp triangular tips fell on the first riders and stopped them. Dropped them clumsily from their horses and those who followed went over them, crippling humans and animals alike.

For a moment the procession seemed willing to go through the line of the brigands through sheer force, but a big sharp stone that hit the leader of the riders in the back of the neck knocking him down like a sack laden with logs, changed that. It immobilized those that followed, so slowly but efficiently the procession came to a complete halt.

_They were about thirty or forty horsemen and maybe a dozen camel riders. For a moment silence prevailed as the riders were looking at their fallen comrades tensed. Then with loud war cries the bandits appeared from their hiding places and fell on them. Some jumped up on horseback from the surrounding rocks and_ _others with pointy poles hurt the horses and the camels, causing the animals to throw their riders. There was pandemonium as for a moment men intermingled with each other. Blades cut deep; limbs were severed and blood spilt in abundance. The bandits being placed already at better spots, especially on the rocks, had the upper hand in this conflict since the beginning. Half an hour later none of the men on horseback were upright and quietness had returned to the hill.'_

.

"Follow me." Said the Asian and began to descend the hill to the point where they had left their animals. The 'Emperor' and the mare Philip had bought from a dealer two months ago.

"What did you see? Were these the men we'd been expecting?" He asked trying not to fall and break his legs following the smallish man, who was quickly descending the steep slope, jumping from rock to rock like a wild goat.

But of course he got no answer back.

They reached their animals and jumped on their saddles. The Asian seemed suddenly in a terrible hurry. Forcibly pulling at the reins he began galloping quickly towards a point in the horizon he was staring earlier for more than half an hour. Philip joined him striving to keep himself on the saddle of the mare. He was tall for his years, likely around seventeen now and despite the muscles on his frame, he had not ceased to be rather skinny, still a very young man that was hobbling on his saddle, ready at any time to fall headlong on the rocky landscape around them.

They realized that something had happened almost immediately. A wounded horse with a broken piece of arrow buried in its bloody ribcage greeted them with a weak neigh and shortly after they saw the corpses.

What was left of them anyway...

Those that were slain by arrows were in a far better condition than those who'd fought hand to hand till the bitter end. Severed hands and headless bodies in bizarre angles and positions were laying right and left. Blood had painted the soil beneath their feet and the big rocks surrounding them a burgundy red. The sun bathed the field and clouds of fat flies were sitting on the still warm bleeding sores, the smell of death suffocating them; a crow screaked as it made a vertical pounce and waken the youth from the stupor that had come upon him. Philip felt his stomach sickening.

"This is not the time..." murmured the Asian sensing his discomfort.

Philip tried desperately to beat the nausea turning his head right and left; the frozen eyes of a Saracen stared at him behind a bush. The man's face was ashen like a death mask, a fat fly entering his nostril, another coming out of his left ear. The guts of the man were covering a distance of eight whole feet, probably as much as he'd managed to crawl just before the end stopped him inside the bushes. Purple and bluish details, a bloody horror;

The insides of Philip's stomach crumbled violently, his mouth filled with bile and unable to contain it he emptied his guts, crouching beside the mare. He felt suddenly sickened and weak. His courage and his appetite for adventure had gone leaving him empty and small.

"Who were they?" He asked the Asian sounding strangled.

"Part of the escort."

Philip gave him a side glance. "Escort for whom?"

"Someone important..." the Asian seemed to think of something, he was mingling his eyebrows looking at the skyline.

_Oh for the love of the Goddess, is he ever going to speak plain?_ Philip wondered.

"You said part, where are the others?" He asked him trying not to stare at the corpses. His stomach gave him another warning.

"You mean, I didn't tell you?" Replied Xe looking amused or whatever. His next words hit him like a brick wall right between the eyes. "We are the others."

Philip's eyes opened initially in surprise, but in a blink they flooded with horror and despair.

Goddess.

Help us.

.

(It was as if the Devil himself was chasing us. We rode hard, harder than I've ever remembered towards a small settlement right between the valley and the big River. The local Moorish commander, whose small wooden post I could now make out just before the first houses of the settlement, was charged with the responsibility to guard the person we were supposed to escort to al-Isbunah, along with the mostly crippled and totally dead soldiers we had just left behind us.)

.

.

Pep Vazquez knew the post would fall anytime now. The flames had covered the south wall that had already cracked. Of the twenty-five men he'd started his attack with, only sixteen remained. Half of which covered with wooden shields were setting fire to the door of the outpost. _They will be enough,_ he thought, _the guard had almost perished and their reinforcements will never arrive, lay as they were already dead, on top of them hills_. They just needed to get inside and the riches that Azis had promised him many months back, when he explained to him his plan that would ultimately hand him one way or the other the throne of Lisbon, would be in his hands. The door opened at that moment, as one of the big sheets fell defeated by the fire.

"We are entering!" He cried aloud to the others and moved towards the entrance, tightening his grasp on the war mace, he held in his right hand.

A Saracen appeared in front of him and tried to hit him with a bent sword. He easily repelled the attack using his left hand, which was covered with an iron chain elbow-gauntlet. The finish of his own weapon, a metal ball covered with spikes, made a semicircular track and found the soldier in his unsecured jaw. The man's face distorted immediately, his features dissolved and turned into a bloody featureless mass. He fell down free of any sound and Vazquez, who had killed his first Muslim when he was still a child using the horn of a bull as a weapon, went over him and entered the courtyard of the small outpost.

.

"There're already inside, stay here Philip. Do not let anyone pass!" the Asian ordered him, his face troubled.

Then he pressed the 'Emperor' to pick up speed; he was about one hundred and fifty meters from the burning outpost, when the last of the brigands entered inside. Philip held his mare and watched as Xe butted towards the broken burning-gates of the outpost. In his hand he held the _'sang que bouillir'_ , the sword flashing an eerie red glow, just before the _'Emperor'_ galloping wildly despite his many years, disappeared into the thick smoke. Philip puffed undecided for a moment, wondering if he should have followed him, when screams reached his ears coming from the burning outpost.

.

Vazquez saw his price trying to hide scared behind the commander of the guards and three Muslim soldiers and he approached his feet thundering on the ground, at the same time spinning around his war mace. One of the soldiers tried to block his path but with a terrible blow, he melted his knee and forced him to regret his attempt. The man fell on a badly-constituted table screaming in agony breaking it under him. The Spaniard went over and hit him again, this time right at the throat ripping it apart and put an end to his screaming. Without stopping he turned his head and called to his two lieutenants, following him not far away.

"Else, Victor, cut her the off!"

The men heard him and were in the process to obey when something strange happened. An incredibly loud bang was heard from the side of the destroyed entrance. Smoke rose making it difficult to see and debris fell around them along with pieces of burned wood, all swept away by a tremendous blowing force, which threw down several of the men, who were fighting nearby. A moment of confusion came.

The men had stopped fighting among themselves and had turned their puzzled attention to where the unexpected explosion had come. His two lieutenants also stood frozen by the turn of events and seeing them idle the commander of the guards decided to use this small reprieve and help the person he was charged with protecting, make an unlikely escape.

Vasquez quickly noticed his intent and moved to intercept him managing a mere two steps before the distinctive sound of horse trampling coming his way and the cries of surprise from his men stopped him again.

He looked towards the entrance, where the odd explosion had occured, and saw through all the smoke and flames a man on horseback his head covered with a scarf, coming galloping towards him. The man went through two of his brigands, using with amazing speed and dexterity a strange sword, cluttering them on the ground heavily wounded.

Vasquez couldn't believe his eyes and cursed, while the man hurled a strange flask with a small flame burning on its sides against a group of four of his men. The flask fell amongst his stunned men and the next minute an equally powerful explosion followed, which made his ears hurt. He thought he saw the sun flash then explode before his very eyes; the sudden light engulfed his men and the ground shook beneath him violently as if an earthquake was happening at that exact moment. He blinked hard trying to clear his blurring vision and when he managed at last to gather his senses, his men were gone. Only some ripped apart bloody remains, bones and pieces of internal organs were left in their stead.

Everyone had frozen in their places. Then an Arabic word pierced the unnatural quietness.

'SIHR!' Shouted one of the brigands and the Arabic word filled the faces of all his comrades with terror. It was not unjustified. No sane man would fight against magic. Vasquez with his ears buzzing from the blast willed himself to move again. He searched for the rider that especially small-bodied man, immediately realizing when he located him a moment later that he continued his frantic path towards him. The stranger was less than ten meters away now; and he could see the sword he carried in his hand giving away a strange red glow, its entire ivory blade wrapped up in this unearthly color. It lasted a moment. The next he wielded it and easily chopped off the hand of a Spaniard, above his right elbow. The man fell back with a heartbreaking cry and his blood sprang from the severed artery like wine from a broken barrel.

"ELSE!"

Vasquez screamed at the top of his lungs to his lieutenant, who seemed dumbfounded by the turn of events, "Do as I've told you, get the job done." He ordered him.

Without waiting to see if the man had heard him, Vasquez lifted his weapon and turned his head to face the hellish rider himself. The man had seen him stand too and he turned his animal, reaching him before a breath was drawn.

Possibly less.

.

' _In the roofless room that appeared to be, although it wasn't, part of an old castle the badly scarred weapon-bearer turned his head towards the unfolding scene. His lips moved uttering a single word._

Jump.'

.

The rider was upon him and Vazquez with no time for further thoughts brought down his mace as hard as he could master, while quickly jumping to the side to avoid being trampled by the animal that went past him like a tornado. The weapon exploded with force on the wooden saddle crashing a big part of it. But the said saddle was empty. Its rider had managed to jump from the mule, went over the head of the brigands' leader and landed like a skilled circus-acrobat on his feet two meters behind him. Vazquez infuriated by his failure turned around and moved back against his resilient enemy cursing every god and demon he could recall in three different tongues.

The man, much shorter up close he noticed than he'd originally estimated, pulled from his wide waistband a bizarre weapon, that looked a lot like a small silver star, an object Vasquez had never before seen in his life and he had seen a great many strange things. He lifted his left hand and tossed it towards the direction of the commander of the guards. His lieutenant was upon him, his broad back hiding him from his eyes. The star-shaped weapon traveled the distance at a tremendous speed, creating an alien whistling sound and wedged itself in Victor's nape. The man fell down immediately without any sound and remained motionless.

Vazquez knew in his gut that his friend was dead. Rage broke out of him and with a guttural animalistic sound he attacked the slanted-eyed man, without any strategy, blindly; he wanted to maim him badly first and then kill him; in that particular order. The strange man, his eyes showing no fear, straighten up opened his hands first forming a human cross and then brought them in front of his chest, holding now with both hands, the hilt of his exotic sword. Vasquez boiling with rage reached him; he towered over the small man as his mace came down and met the fragile looking sword-blade almost at its middle. The alien weapon glowed shooting a bright red light that covered the courtyard.

Vasquez triumphant scream died in his throat.

The spiked mace in his hand was wrapped up in flames.

He threw it away immediately, but the flames had already reached the clothing in his hands, leaping hungry upwards towards his face. His beard caught fire next, it burned fast through the soft flesh of his neck and then entered his body. His skin blackened as the fire started burning him from the inside, hideous blisters were forming on his face that grew and then exploded outwards and he started a crazy dance, screaming and crying at the same time. He didn't last long; in a matter of seconds he was reduced in an undefined mass of burning flesh not three feet from the small bodied stranger.

.

Xe snorted and turned his attention to the last of the brigands. But before he'd the chance to move on him, he noticed the commander of the guards stumble and fall on his knees bloodied, holding his left side. He could clearly see the handle of a dagger stuck in his ribcage; the blade had passed through the scaled hauberk the soldier wore over his robes injuring him seriously.

One of his soldiers was trying to pull him away from three brigands that had surrounded them. Much further away Else, the last of Vasquez's lieutenant's, was dragging captive a petite human wrapped in a fine blue silk robe that concealed him from head to toe. He was heading towards a large black stallion with determined long strides, ready to escape with his precious cargo.

Xe searched this time desperately to find the Emperor but the stubborn animal had disappeared, so murmuring under his teeth turned towards Else again only to realize he'd already threw his captive on the horse, tying him up like a suck of potatoes. He was more than thirty meters from him, Xe bitterly noticed.

He was clearly running out of time.

Xe started moving in a desperate attempt to reach him on foot, but the heartbreaking cry of one of the Saracen soldiers that guarded the local commander, made him stop and turn with a sigh towards him. _Trust the boy_ , he said to himself, _he must be able to do that much on his own or else this whole ordeal is pointless._

The bandits had wounded the soldier at the hand, cutting him to the bone and now they were all circling him like a pack of hungry hyenas craving to deliver the final blow. Xe gave it no more thought and closed in on them spinning around in his hands the _'Sang bouillir'._ The sword gave that eerie red glow again.

He fell on them like a tornado.

.

Xe cut the first of them deep across the back, a surgical strike that severed his spinal column and even before the man hit the ground, he'd reached for the second one, who upon seeing him cursed the prophets in the worst possible manner and tossed him one of the two curved swords he was sporting. Xe stooped slightly and grabbed the sword in the air by its hilt, forcing the Saracen to eye him in stunned disbelief.

Xe's voice was steady, his tone absolute.

"Never throw away a weapon, if you desire not, your enemy to use it." He told him.

.

Philip heard a howling coming from a nearby valley and tensed up. He turned on the saddle and searched the surrounding area. Then the howling was heard again much closer this time. He followed the sound with his eyes and saw the creature staring at him with that eerie orange eyes standing on the top of a hill, no-more-than four hundred meters from him. A shiver went down his spine. The dark-grey wolf growled, bearing its fangs. _Was the damn thing following him?_ He thought grasping at his pole with both hands; the wolf had turned his attention to a point behind him now, in the direction of the burning outpost. He turned his eyes to that spot but saw nothing but smoke and flames, so he returned his gaze to the animal. He blinked in surprise. The top of the hill was empty. The wolf had disappeared. _Maybe I'm seeing things_ , Philip thought, before his eyes closed unwillingly. He dreamt.

.

A dead man was sitting on the throne.

His world had become ashes, but the witch turned her eyes on him, her voice a whisper. 'Because he will come... the one who has no home in this realm, he will speak the names, a sail for each travel, a death hidden in every laughter, he will come, the servant of a dead princess, the unwanted...'

The ashes had become a garden, rain was pouring heavy, a gold scorpion walked towards him full of menace but her shadows engulfed him, they sent him to a battlefield, a valley full of red soil. The sky above him had three moons and the enemy was a castle woven with royal purple scarves; every scarf had a name, every name was kept for a reason. She was there, her sapphire colored eyes, crying rivers of blood. She was calling him, her face changing; a monster disguised as human, but her voice never reached him. It was the witch again that whispered in his ear 'he who has no home in this realm, will come to do my mother's bidding; will bring the end of this kingdom, he will wield the weapons, death will bring him no peace cause his name was forgotten, his life stolen...'

Ashes shuffled under his feet, the Devil wearing a crimson full-plate armor walked out of the burning church and the dead man on the throne opened his eyes.

.

Draco was staring him, dread written all over his face.

" _Did you see that?" The warrior asked but Dar'Ible preferred not to answer him. He turned his eyes on the unfolding scene instead, leaving the old man get rid of the rest of the brigands by himself._

.

Philip forced his eyes open and saw the man coming galloping from the outpost. He rode towards him at full speed, although he had another person loaded on his horse. Pulling at the reins of his mare, Philip cut off the way of the rider, whom judging from his clothes, was likely a Spaniard. The man upon seeing him held his animal and approached him cautiously, looking around and behind Philip to where the foliage was starting, as if expecting his yet unseen allies, to come at him at any moment. His face was hard, but his eyes betrayed his nervousness.

"Get out of my way, young man!" he ordered him in the local tongue.

Philip shook his head negatively.

"Do not go meddling in foreign businesses or you will lose your head, laddie!" Else barked at him, his tone harder this time.

"I cannot let you pass." Philip said matter-of-factly, tightening his grip on his wooden pole. He kept his face a calm mask but his heart was beating in his chest with such force, it was actually hurting him.

The Spaniard laughed this time loudly, as he eyed him more carefully. A peasant man, less-man-and-more-a-skinny-teenager it seemed to him, with a pretty face, standing alone in the wilderness, trying to order a named man around; that was too much, he thought. He came down of his horse pulling a long sword from a scabbard he had attached on the saddle of the animal. He took off his helmet and passed the fingers of his left hand through his long dark hair setting them clear off his face.

Philip descended from his mare following his example and pulled a sword from a smaller pouch along with a sturdy dagger with a wooden handle he had made himself some two months back, while working at a local blacksmith. He left his wooden pole, on the side of the mare and turned to face him. They stood for a moment facing each other, with no more than five feet separating them. Philip realized that the man was at least sixty pounds heavier, as well as thirty inches taller than him and the idea of a heroic duel suddenly held less of an appeal in his eyes. He decided quickly to surprise him somehow, so he did a little sudden move with his sword as if preparing to hit him; but in the last moment he changed his tactic and tossed his dagger towards the man. The Spaniard didn't even move, he'd shown no surprise as he easily repelled the flying dagger with his sword. The weapon fell with a thud on the ground. Philip gulped nervously.

The man's voice full of malice chilled his blood.

"You are lost, little boy..." he said.

And attacked him.

.

Xe used the curved sword in his left hand to attack the Saracen, who was dressed with western clothes. _They had disguised themselves to look like local guerillas_ , he thought, _these were Azis's men, Saracens killing Saracens._ The man repulsed him using his own sword to block the blade. He expected as much from him and the moment their weapons locked, he shook his right hand holding the _'Sang bouillir'_ upside down, its curved edge opening a deep wound on the man's neck, slashing at his carotid. The brigand was dead before he even touched the grass, his blood pouring out of him with a hissing sound. Xe turned his attention on the last of them, who seemed unable to comprehend what had turned an easy battle, so many of them against only this tiny foreign man, to this bloodshed. His eyes were full of an absurd fear, _MAGIC!_ He could hear him telling himself and he grinned.

"Leave!" Xe yelled at him.

The man stared at him stupidly, his mouth half opened.

"Leave!" He repeated in a harsher tone and the man staggering made a few steps backwards, slowly removing himself at first and after a few moments, he started running towards the broken entrance, throwing his weapons and never looking back. The smoking entrance completely destroyed by now, seemed like the giant mouth of a Dragon, it swallowed him whole and he was gone.

Xe leaned over the seemingly seriously wounded commander of the guards and lightly touched his forehead with his left hand.

"Can you speak?" He asked and the man coughed violently, spitting a large amount of blood when he tried to answer. The blade had pierced his lung, he was beyond salvation, he noticed saddened.

"They have taken..." he told him with great difficulty. "Couldn't save... Aswad Warda... is lost."

Xe stared at the man's eyes that had become like glass now, lifeless.

"No...' he replied finally. 'they haven't taken her... yet." And prayed his god spared that brave soldier's soul.

.

Philip ducked at the last moment, bending his legs so hastily that he felt a sharp pain in his knees, managing however to dodge Else's sword that passed over his head.

"Oh, damn your whore mother!" the Spaniard cursed and tried again to hit the young man by downing his sword, intending to nail him to the ground. Philip rolled to his left side, made two quick tumbles and popped up again with his own sword in his hands. The new failure maddened Else, who used only power in his next blow. The blades of the swords collided and Philip managed another last minute defense. The Spaniard pulled back his weapon, then making two quick steps forward, downed it again with fury missing seemingly his target, but it was a decoy move his assault continued, forcing his blade to a curved course, low at its beginning and rising sharply once it came closer to Philip. It connected with the young man's sword just above its handle and hurled it ten meters away.

Philip's eyes went from his empty hands to his sword that lay now several meters from him. _He had lost both his weapons, brilliantly_ , he thought frustrated.

"Will you quit now?" he heard Else's voice; he was pointing the tip of his own sword at him.

"Why, are you tired already?" He answered sarcastically, but he was worried inside, knowing he was in a difficult position. His eyes searched about the place, but did not see anything that could alter the course of their duel. _Only a sound..._ From far away he thought he heard the distant galloping of a horse. Friend or foe he was at least five minutes away and he didn't have that much time. Actually he didn't have any time at all.

Else came upon Philip and tried to run him through with his sword. He jumped backwards and then immediately to the side as the Spaniard attacked him again stubbornly, lowering his weapon with such force that he wedged his blade in the soft soil, missing him by an inch. Philip grasped at that small advantage and moving quickly he hit him hard on his left side using both his hands as Xe had taught him. Phillip thought he heard a rib cracking and Else tripped as if ready to collapse, but the moment the boy lost his alertness, the man shook his fist and hit him in the stomach. Philip folded in two with a drowned cry, all air knocked out of him.

He tried to counterman the pain but before he could manage anything, he saw with the corner of his eye the other hand of the Spaniard coming towards him. The iron grip of the sword found him on the side of the face and tore his cheek. He went face down on the ground, his head feeling as heavy as a pregnant mare's belly. His mouth had the taste of blood, he could not feel the left side of his face and the laughter of his opponent, full of irony for his mishap, attacked his strained nerves. Phillip stood up slowly and tried to banish the weakness which he now felt in his legs. He had almost fainted, just barely managed to combat it and the blow could easily have killed him or caved in his face, if it had landed but a little more accurate. Blood was running down his neck, wetting his shirt. He was a mess.

His blood was on the grip of the Spaniard's sword and Else wiped it with his sleeve, still laughing at him. Then he tested the sword's balance, shaking it from left to right, before he turned it against him for one more time. Philip saw him closing in, a six-foot frame grown man, sixty pounds of heavier muscular flesh, ten years more experienced.

Lethal.

He thought of retreating. Turn tail right there and run for his life, but strangely he didn't move. Something made him stay his feet. _'This isn't the toughest adversary you will face'_ his mind told him, its reasoning absolute. _'There would be more, stronger and deadlier, many more...'_

"Not here...' he told Else, who looked at him perplexed for a moment, before he attempted to pierce him. He turned his torso just enough to avoid the sword of the Spaniard and as he missed, he grabbed him by the elbow sticking to his painful lessons and hitting his shoulder with the other hand, he sent him startled on the ground. He ran without hesitation to the point where his sword had fallen, but it was too far and Else was already standing up growling, so he settled for the small dagger that he found nailed on the grass in front of his feet. He turned around just in time, as the man with anger blurring his eyes, reached him again.

He tried to jump backwards, but he lost his balance and he fell with the Spaniard towering over him. The tip of the sword slashed at his shirt cutting the flesh above his heart but it was not a deadly trauma; he raised the hand holding the dagger and stabbed blindly upwards, as he was falling on his back. He had closed his eyes without realizing it. Philip hit the ground letting a panicked cry escape his lips. Something liquid was running on his hand, reaching his elbow, soaking his shirt.

Time had stopped.

He opened his eyes and saw that Else's expression had changed, from total hatred to that of absolute surprise. His eyes were wide open and his face was turning paler by the second. Philip lowered his and he almost flinched by what he saw. His blow had cut the carotid artery and the dagger had plunged itself in Else's throat to the hilt. The man was still standing above him, but he was dead. He gathered himself slowly up -trying not to look at the wound and the flowing blood that had painted the Spaniard's neck and chest a deep red- and touched him lightly on the shoulder. The man fell backwards like a tree trunk.

'...not in this way." He finished his words, his voice a whisper.

.

Xe was there not five minutes later. Philip had sunk under the shadow of an olive tree too tired to move. His face was swollen on one side and his chest and arms were bloodied. He looked and felt sick.

"Where is she?" The old warrior asked him immediately, jumping from the 'Emperor' and after a quick survey of the area he run towards the prisoner Else had tied on his horse. "Why didn't you free her?" he asked him again, as he removed the shackles, but Philip looked at him blankly unable to comprehend what he was asking of him. Then his face showed hurt.

"I'm fine, thanks for your concern" he told him bitterly, realizing he couldn't see clearly from his left eye. "I think I'm blinded..." he muttered, closing in on Xe, who was unfolding the long blue robe of the captive.

The Asian grinned at him.

"You have nothing serious. I was certain you could manage. Only one guy,' he made a dismissive gesture with a hand 'when I met you, if you recall, you were ready to fight six of them."

Philip opened his mouth to answer him with a number of harsh remarks but the sight of a dainty hand, which appeared from inside the robe, stopped him. The smallish -almost a child's- hand with the shapely fingers, lifted the thick veil which had shrouded her head and revealed another one, this one transparent and embroidered with gold thread, a yashmak. A pair of lovely black eyes adorned by two also black, sleek and groomed eyebrows, took the place of Else's prisoner.

"Philip,' he heard Xe announcing in his most official tone, 'I want to introduce to you, Princess Saida al Aswad Warda, the youngest sister of the governor of Lisbon."

_Wow, she is the most beautiful woman I've ever seen._ Philip had to fight to keep his mouth closed. He attempted an awkward bow, almost falling down in the process.

"Your Excellency, the young man that saved you is Philip...' Xe continued and with a sly expression on his face as if he was enjoining this too much, he added. '...without another title."

The girl's eyes turned on him; she blinked one time and her voice soft and melodic made him forget his pain.

"Be assured that this will change, Tahar Batal al Salib." She replied, her yashmak unable to hide her smile from Philip, who suddenly felt taller than the large trees that covered the forests around the faraway village, where he had grown up.

.

Saida's gaze fell on him as he passed her by on his horse and he had to fight hard to concentrate on the Asian's next words.

"They probably left a scout party behind them Philip. You ride ahead now, protect the Princess at any cost and I'll catch up with you."

"You will need my help" he protested but Xe would have none of it.

"An injured man is less soldier and more burden."

"Why... thank you, that actually made me feel worse."

Xe nodded with his head.

"Worse is not dead and that is better.' He replied adding 'stay with her and keep on riding south."

"It's fresh to do _your_ bidding for a change" Philip commented deictically watching him galloping away.

.

' _The demon was watching the scene unfolding with interest, his eyes set on the small-bodied female. His Keep was empty, all the others gone, his memories retreating leaving him alone._

" _Will you bring me what I want?" He asked but his voice never left his Realm.'_

.

.

(Three hours later)

"He is not your father, but you still listen to him." Saida said and embarrassed he forced his eyes away from her delicate fingers that were tending his chest wound.

"Not really he isn't.' he said 'but sometimes I think he is. I met him three years ago but it kinda seems like yesterday and I'm still the clueless boy I was especially when I try to reason with him."

"Time can appear short if one lives an interesting life."

Philip half-grinned staring in her pretty eyes.

"I bet you your life is much more interesting than mine Princess."

Saida pulled her hands away from him and got up. Thinking that he had offended her, Philip cursed his careless peasant tongue and hurried to offer her an apology. She stopped him with an elegant palm gesture.

"A woman's share is half that of a man's _Rabb al Aswad Warda_.' Saida said behind her long eyelashes. 'what you suggested is impossible in Allah's world."

"I'm sorry if I had offended you." Philip said not really sure how to answer to that. The Muslim God seemed pretty much the same to him as the Christian one and he wasn't fond of either.

Saida walked to her horse and he went after her to help her up the saddle.

"Another a couple of hours and we will stop again." He said trying to mend the mood but the girl remained silent the rest of the way.

.

They rode hard towards safety. A little before dusk Xe caught up with them. The Asian was covered in fine dust and seemed deathly tired so he decided not to bother him about what had happened.

.

(The news that the raid along with his plans had failed, reached Azis al Qatil and his war-band turned to chase them. To avoid him they traveled mostly by night hiding in caves or woods and sleeping on the hard ground. But Azis had the whole lands in his pocket and they soon realized that they couldn't escape the clutches of the warlord so easily. The days became months as they traveled in circles, trying to break through treacherous paths to Lisbon, without being captured. The nights became longer and that helped them. Slowly they managed to pull themselves closer to friendlier grounds. But the hard journey had taken its toll on them.)

### Part III

### .

(Rousse)

.

November 968 AD,

4 days ride from Lisbon

.

The animals were tired; it seemed like futility to continue their journey through the bitter cold. The light snow had stopped falling from the previous day, but there was enough on the ground, it covered like a soft white fur the landscape around them. The temperature had dropped below zero earlier in the morning and it had iced it, making the snow shine on many points; the winds of the Atlantic were too close, they pierced the thick skins they wore. Philip and Xe already living in these harsh conditions for three winters now, had managed to withstand the cold, but it was not so for the unaccustomed eastern girl. She seemed to suffer more with every moment that passed. It was the third day she was burning from the fever and the nostrums of the Asian, no longer seemed able to relieve her. Xe, his face lined and troubled, led them to a small cave on the edge of a forest, a natural shelter from the wind and then jumped from the _'Emperor'_ and helped the girl sit in a dry section of the cave, as better protected from the weather, as it was possible.

Philip heard him coming toward him after a while. He had gathered, during the time the Asian cared for Saida, a hug of wet woods and was attempting desperately rubbing the knife on the surface of a flat stone, to light a fire. He had not yet managed to produce, despite his best efforts, but only a few tiny sparks. Xe took the stone from his hands and after he threw some of that black powder he kept in a silver casket on top of the woods; he rubbed the flat side of the knife on the stone. A small flash preceded the bang, which Philip was by now accustomed to hear every time that the Asian used his magic powder and the wood ripped with fire.

"I am unable to lower her heat." Xe said staring at the fire trying to conquer the wet woods. Philip turned his eyes to the pale girl they accompanied in the last three months, her fragile figure overwhelmed from the chills, which were more frequent every hour. He lowered his head trying to hide the anguish on his face.

"What should we do?" He asked trying to keep his voice steady.

"We need to find a therapist, a local healer. Someone who knows better than me the local herbs." He replied him. _Oh, that's just great_ , Philip thought.

"Where will we find that healer? We are in the middle of nowhere and the cold only strengthens—"

Xe cut his whining raising his hand.

"We... will not find him, you will." He said matter-of-factly.

Philip turned towards him perplexed, but before he could speak, the man overwhelmed him with a flow of instructions.

"You will begin immediately. You will find the nearest town or village; it cannot be more than a day away if you ride towards the sea, we are too close to Lisbon by the look of things. You will ride carefully there and then you will come back with someone who can help us."

"And you..." he had to say something.

"I will stay behind to care for her. You must hurry though; I do not know how much longer I can keep her alive."

"Are you saying that if I don't find someone—" Xe stopped him grabbing his shoulder and forcing him to concentrate on his next words.

"You will. I trust you, you know that." He said to him decisively. "You will trot as fast as you can, find him and be back. The fate of the princess is in your hands Philip, you need to appear worthy of this honor. Do you understand?" he asked him completing his words.

.

And the boy shaking his head affirmatively had replied that he understood.

Find a healer and ride back to save Saida, what in the name of the Goddess could go wrong?

He could think of more than a few things.

.

(November 968 AD,

a public house

in today's Alverca does Ribatejo)

..

The publican, a ferocious man standing just over six-feet and weighing at least two hundred and forty pounds, hurled against him a kitchen knife with a sharpened blade. Rousse saw it coming and dived to the other side of the bed. The knife went over his head and pinned deep into the wooden bed-cushion behind him. He jumped and fell off the bed as the frightened girl screamed his name, but he had no time to deal with that; he believed that a man had to deal only with the things he considered of the outmost importance at any given time and this time he was interested in nothing but finding a way to get himself out of this room. Intact preferably or in as-fewer-pieces-as-possible, if the worse came to be.

The publican growled something unintelligible as Russe using a snake-like, sliding move on the floor was able to reach the end of the bed, wrap loosely around him his pants and tried to sit up. The publican saw his almost comic attempt and moved towards him. Grabbing hold of a wooden chair he found in his path, he began brandishing it like a bat. His first try with this improvised _'club'_ missed since Rouse was able to bend at the last minute, but the second found his shoulder and sent him flying like a cockroach on the wooden door. He crushed on the said door, which shook violently and then fell loose from its hinges, _certainly a sigh of a bad design_ , thought Russe, as he fell along with the wooden door, in the next room; a room used for cooking. He got up immediately and adopting as a gentlemanly expression as possible, since he was butt naked, he tried to reassure the bystanders.

"Everything is fine... all is well. I was—" He said smiling like an idiot, covering his cock with his hands, but hearing the publican coming roaring behind him he began to run again before completing his sentence. He found the tavern's dining room and went like a tornado past the mostly empty, _thank the goddess_ , tables. Well _mostly-empty_ was not the same as empty as he soon found out as from a corner four massive men, _a trait that seemed to run in this whole damn village_ , had risen up upset by the voices of the tavern master.

"Where do think you're going Mr.?" Asked one of them his voice hoarse from years of drinking and hard labor work and went ahead to block his path. He was ready to tell him a heartbreaking, tasty fat lie, but the loud voice of the tavern master was heard first ruining his attempt.

"Get him!" he shouted behind his back. "He dishonored MY ANNA!"

_Now that... was a fat lie_ , he thought. _The girl was far from innocent, like from here to England or something_. It did the trick though; the eyes of the men shot at him immediately, convinced beyond _any reasonable doubt_ for his quilt and started circling him slowly.

"Why you filthy maggot..." said one of them. His closest partner pulled a tilted knife from his waistband.

"Tell me it ain't true." He threatened him looking into his eyes, but he doubted that him saying anything of the kind would convince him.

Rousse searched around him for a way out, the heavy steps of the publican on his back making his difficult situation, worse.

"You're as dim-witted as you look, if you think you can touch Jeremiah's daughter and get away with it." said with voice full of malice the man standing over his right side.

"Now that I think of it...' began Rousse, watching out the corner of his eye, the tavern master stopping behind him. He lowered his hand on the table the four of them were sitting on when he had entered and touched with his fingers a tin bowl of hot pottage. 'I should apologize...' their eyes were locked on him, anticipating his next words, 'but you see...' he continued slowly, it was a stupid plan he had to admit it, but he was standing naked against five angry ogres that wanted to skin him alive or fuck him up the arse, probably both. _Beggars can't be choosers._ 'I was hardly the first one... touching her.' He added with a toothy smile.

You could hear a pin fall down in the silence that fell in the room.

Rousse saw wonder appear on the face of the man standing opposite of him. He waited with his nerves tensing and when he heard the cry of the insulted publican, he grabbed the bowl turned and threw it on his face. The hot soup blinded the man, who cursed his ancestors in the worst possible manner and using again the chair as a bat tried to hit him. He missed _no doubt thanks to his avenging offended ancestors_ and as he blindly continued landing blows right and left, he disabled two of the startled men and gave him the opening he was waiting for. He flew by the fallen men in the turmoil and went for the door of the tavern. He reached the door, opened it and with relief flowing out of him, went outside to the frozen air, ready to run like the wind. But he didn't.

He had stopped at the last moment, the edge of a sword only an inch from the skin of his neck. A young hard-faced man, around seventeen or eighteen, wearing dirty leather pants and a wretched coat was holding it. Rousse managed to stand there still, shivering with the cold engulfing him in its frozen embrace, for a long second and when the feeling in his limbs became unbearable, he gave the young stranger his most honest smile.

"Not Anna's brother?" He asked him hesitantly hopping for the better. The stranger seemed surprised which was in a way fine, but he didn't lower his sword, which of course was anything but.

.

Philip heard the noise and saw after a while the naked young fair-haired man running impatiently, storm out of the exit of what looked a lot like an inn. It was the first building he had encountered for at least a month. He raised his sword and stopped the running man, almost running him through in the process. The said man obviously in a state of great surprise asked him something unintelligible. Behind him came another group of men lead by a huge, hulk of a man who wore a tavern apron and had bloodshot eyes and a -fairly recently by the looks of it- badly burnt face.

"That's it, stop him right there..." they urged him when they saw he had immobilized the blond.

"Look... just let me go," pleaded Rousse, but Philip cut him off.

"Can you help me?" He asked, addressing the men who were slowly approaching them.

"Hold him so and I'll help you good 'n proper, I'll even buy you a nice meal." Said the burnt-man who was surely the publican.

"I don't want food," Philip replied, although his stomach complained loudly at his ridiculous statement, "I am actually looking for a healer." he added.

"Then you've found him." Rousse told him immediately, but Philip laughed at that.

"You would say just about anything to get out of this." He threw at him.

"Believe me... go ahead and ask them, if there is another one in this whole region."

Philip turned his sword to the tavern master. The man stopped coming towards him and gave him a glare one mostly reserves for a sewer rat.

"What in the hells of that fat-ass-whore Trebaruna, you think you're doing you bastard?" He growled.

_Goddess, forgive this ignorant fool_ , Philip prayed silently.

"Is there another therapist nearby?" he asked him calmly, expecting another rebuke.

"Choke yourself in your puke!" the publican cursed him. A man next to him raised a small dagger and prepared to throw it at him. _No-other-Healer-but-this-one_ , Philip pondered, _now... that, was something._

"Do not do it..." he warned the daring man and his answer was giving him a measuring look. He didn't seem terribly impressed nor as confident though, which was a good thing considering. He got his mind to more pressing matters.

"Got a horse?" He asked Russe, always keeping the men away with his sword.

The naked man glanced hopefully at his mare. Turning his head, he smiled at him. _You've got to be kidding me,_ he thought.

"Not really." Came Rousse's reply.

Of course you don't.

"Jump on...' he ordered him. 'be extra haste about it."

There was no need to say it twice.

Rousse urged the horse to run and Philip jumped behind him and took the reigns as they galloped away from the inn. The men shouted after them and the publican even attempted to follow them for a while, but he quickly fell back puffing and cursing.

Escaping the village unharmed wasn't exactly a miracle but a good turn of events nonetheless.

.

They were not five minutes away when Rousse turned his body on the saddle and asked him to stop.

"What now?" Philip asked him furiously and then he realized the man was naked and freezing from the cold. He blushed cursing himself and stopped the horse. "There are some fresh clothes in the backpacks." He said keeping his voice indifferent.

After his new companion quickly dressed himself, he hesitated looking first at the saddle, then at him. Philip felt his cheeks turn red again and gave him an angry scowl.

"You are not riding behind me or whatever it is you're are thinking." He told him. "Forget it."

Rousse grinned at him.

"You were holding me rather closely before." He said. Philip thought he was going to explode from embarrassment.

"I wasn't holding... get up here or I'll leave you where you stand." He growled gritting his teeth.

"I could walk the rest of the way. There is no need." The blond man insisted as if still unsure of his intentions.

_Oh-by-the-love-of-the-spirits_ , the man was unbearable. His hand went to the hilt of his sword and that seemed at last, to will the man on the saddle. He climbed up and sat as far from him as it was possible. Philip couldn't see his face but he heard his voice, there was a tease in his tone, like he was having fun with the whole situation.

"You seemed rather excited back there for some reason. If I misread you sir, please forgive me." Said plainly mocking him.

Oh, he was not excited, he was furious.

"Shut your mouth!" spat Philip and pulled the reins sending the mare to a gentle gallop.

.

They made camp six hours later near a mature sycamore maple tree. Philip went to gather dry wood from a nearby Holt. The ground was hard and iced but the snow had melted somewhat and despite the cold, the weather was a little better. The night was coming though and it would get worse fast, he knew the whims of the land fairly well by now. He returned with the lumps and proceeded to build a fire. After a while the warm flames lighted the darks around them. Rousse had finished building a cot and was sitting cross-legged on the opposite side of the fire.

Philip tried not to look at him, still annoyed by his earlier behavior but the man kept staring at him for some reason.

"I don't know your name." the man said after a while. Philip held his tongue, he was ready to tell him to go to the-seven-hells, but then he realized it was a reasonable request.

"It's Philip." He said at last, looking at him. The man, no more than twenty years, gave him a broad smile.

"You are a Gaul?" he asked him.

"I think my father was Norman." Or something like that, he supposed his mother was Frank or Gaul, but he'd never met either his father or his mother. "I was an orphan, Tom... a blacksmith, found me wondering alone at a very small age and he raised me as his own." His voice cracked a little and he tried to compose himself before continuing. The memory of Zosen, a man he loved as a brother, came to him. He closed his eyes but the pain was there, eating him from the inside. The raid, the cries of the women and his bitter escape, a coward's way out. There was compassion in the man's voice.

"What happened to them?"

"We were traveling; to a nearby town near the Channel to sell our ware, a Viking raid... they killed everyone." _Well almost everyone, some they kept..._ His stomach turned at the thought. "I escaped." He said in a low voice.

"My father disowned me. I am a bastard, a cheat and a thief. I will not judge you for wanting to survive Philip."

Philip cracked a smile.

"I thought you were a healer."

The man laughed, his face was handsome, Philip noticed. He had blond curly hair, cut rather short and glittering blue eyes. He was shorter than him and he didn't have the built of a warrior. The man had answered him, but he had missed his reply. Rousse had spoken again sensing it.

"As I said, I am that too." He grinned at him. "My name is Rousse by the way. It means fair-haired or something."

"Nice to meet you Rousse. I seem to be in need of your help."

"Yes, you've said that much back there."

Philip nodded more relaxed now. There was a friendly warmth in the man's eyes, that eased his heart. He realized he was living a very secluded life these past years, no friendly faces except Xe's; but Xe wasn't... well there was no easy way to explain, what exactly the Asian was.

"We travel with a young woman...' Rousse raised a brow at his words 'she is very sick with fever. We need to make her well, soon."

"We?"

"Xe and me, it's a long story." Rousse shuffled his curly hair with his hand.

"What kind of a name is Xe anyway?" he asked him. Philip cursed himself for believing, that this rogue, was a decent human being, just seconds before.

"Didn't you hear me? I told you a woman is in danger, what kind of a man—" Rousse cut him off, raising his hand a serious expression on his face.

"Is she beautiful?" he asked him, his eyes shining.

What?

"Are you stupid? What does this have to do—" Philip growled this time, anger rising in him, in heated waves.

"Everything."

Philip's stare could burn him on the spot but Rousse kept his cool. He threw another log in the fire. "You don't know?" he asked him indifferently.

He puffed trying to calm his head.

"I guess, she is." He finally said. Rousse whistled ironically.

"You guess. You haven't seen her up close?"

_Oh, he was gonna struggle him_. He made a move to rise on his feet, but logic prevailed again. He sat back down puffing heavily.

"Can you heal her from the fever or will I have to leave you here all tied up, for that nice tavern guy to pick you up?" he asked in a steady voice. Rousse was looking at him as if he was trying to read his very soul. Philip felt his face redden. _Of all the healers_ , he thought, _he had to end up with this roguish, intolerable creature._

"I can." Came his answer.

Seriously? He asked him with a stare.

"Don't worry about it." Rousse gave him a big grin that made him wanna roll his eyes.

Yeah, and come morrow the sun would be warm enough to swim in the river.

.

They were ready to retire for the night; Philip fed the fire some more logs and turned, ready to reach for the warmth of the blankets. Rousse's voice stopped him short of that.

"You are not going to try anything funny now eh?"

Philip looked at him trying to understand what he was trying to say, and then he got up, his face red, ears warm despite the cold wind.

"I don't... I've never..." he lost his words. He used all his willpower to calm himself down and he said in a low threatening voice. "Get in the cot."

Rousse tossed a side-glance to the cold night around them, as if contemplating escaping. Philip cursed aloud and went to pick up his sword, he had enough of him, he decided he was going to try and get another healer.

"Okay."

He turned to look at him.

"I believe you." Rousse said plainly. Philip let the air come out of his lungs. He kept his hold on the sword, watching the young man slip into the made up bed. He turned his back to him. After a while Philip joined him, trying not to touch, trying not to provoke any kind of a reaction from him. He just wanted to sleep. Like the dead. Rousse had other ideas obviously, he heard him turning oh-so-slowly under the warm blankets to face his back. Philip waited.

A minute, two minutes.

"You saved my skin back there." He didn't answer him. "I guess, I owe you one." He gave him a muffled sound as a reply. "You must understand that with the looks you have... you seemed to have lived a very hard life; my-God, you've never laughed even a little and I'm a kinda funny guy. That is intimidating, to us simple people." _Please no more bonding_ _or whatever that is,_ Philip thought. "I was raised by a healer, he taught me many things. I will help your woman, you can trust me."

Yeah right.

"She is not my woman."

"She must be very pretty, to make you so defensive of her."

Philip counted the paces to his sword. Not-that-far, but he had to get out of the warm cot to reach it. _Damn my horse_ , he cursed.

"We must bring her to Lisbon alive. It is my mission." He told him instead.

"Is this important to you then, completing your missions?"

Philip barely heard his own voice.

"Yes."

"Whatever the cost?"

_Goddess, have mercy on your faithful servant. Give me guidance and patience_ , prayed Philip. He shouldn't answer; he thought that he should leave it at that and try to get some sleep, because come morrow they would have to ride, stopping to rest the loaded animal more frequently, making the journey back slow and dangerous. He opened his eyes and stared at the darkness around them. He could barely see the mare, hiding behind the trunk of the tree. The fire was giving a dim light, not enough to make out anything else. It was a very cold night.

"Philip?" Rousse inquired still awake.

"Whatever the cost Rousse." He told him, his voice clear.

The man didn't answer him and he felt him turning his back. Philip closed his eyes and let the sleep take him away to the land of dreams.

.

A dead man was sitting on the throne.

His eyes were closed, his face pale, his chest bloodied. The blood had frozen. The statues were watching him, either guards or Keepers.

This world was dead.

Then the storm came, it blew the ashes away and brought voices and the sounds of drums.

A palace was slowly filling up with people. Some were quests, some were natives; Saracens, Greeks and Romans, enslaved Africans, all the races, so many different titles. It was a feast. A gathering of cultures. A world of light and life. He was walking down the great hall of the palace. He was wearing a nicely woven uniform, made up from a rich soft material and he was carrying a scabbard, the white hilt of a sword in it. A man was sitting on a great alabaster throne; he gestured him to come closer with a warm smile on his lips. Then the smile changed and became a grimace of disgust. There was a woman sitting near the man's feet; a veil covered her from head to toe. Her feet were bare. Jeweled rings were adorning her toes, their shine dazzled his eyes, he lost sight of the great hall and the world became dark.

The soil beneath his feet had turned red for a moment. Then everything on that foreign ground had transformed to ashes. The ashes, turned as he walked, forming swirling clouds around his feet; this world was empty. A Knight, wearing scale armor, black as coal, raised his hand and pointed it at him.

You shouldn't be here, the Knight said.

These were not his memories.

The sword spoke in his head. 'Danger, be prepared.' It glowed in his hand, that emerald unearthly glow. Rain fell on his face; then that world was gone.

A garden, full off exotic plants and trees he never had seen before, opened up before him. The Gold Scorpion, the 'Pat Bpen Jong-aang', raised a malformed claw defensively, the Princess's shadows embraced him, covering him protectively and he felt her moving silently, gliding graciously almost like ether. He turned to face her and the beauty of her face caught his breath, straight long jet-black hair, eyes the color of sapphires, snow white skin and dark-red luscious lips. He stopped unable to speak and stared at her. She reached him and touched his cheek with her hand. Her touch was cold, like a piece of ice, his skin burned when her hand, withdrew. 'At least I've learned one of your secrets.' She told him sounding sad. What did he answer her? 'Never wear a mask again Princess' The flash of a thunder covered his words and then the rain stopped. Her world was filled with blood.

An apparition whispered, 'in the end everything becomes ashes.'

There was a dead man sitting on the throne.

The statues of the warriors were watching him silently, patiently, as if time had no meaning, in this realm. The sounds came again. Screaming agonizing sounds, names and places; places death had visited and left behind in emptiness. The man moved, a whisper escaped his lips but the word was lost.

This world was dead.

.

Philip opened his eyes and the morning sun hurt his eyes. He felt cramped and in foul mood, his sleep had been full of nightmares. He felt the cot and found it empty. _Damn,_ he thought, he was alone. That son-of-a-whore had left him, during the night. He got up and looked around him, he saw the mare no more than twenty paces from him and that relaxed him a little. If he hadn't taken the horse, then it was okay. He couldn't have gone far on foot. He reached for his sword and unsheathed it. The blade flashed in the sun.

"Usually when I wake, I reach for my cock." He heard Rousse's voice and jumped toward the sound.

"Where the hell have you been?" He barked at him still pissed by his absence. Rousse showed him a small linen bag -actually it was his bag, he noticed- he held in his hands.

"I went to gather medicine. In case snow falls again. You mind?" he pointed at his sword; he realized that he still held it in his hand.

"You found medicine out here?" he inquired adopting a more neutral stance. Rousse blinked one time and then gave him a mischievous grin. He pointed a finger on his chest.

"Healer. Told you so."

"Yeah right, you did."

"I hope that these will be enough, that is, if we are not terribly unlucky or late." He stopped talking as Philip gestured him to silence with his hand. There was a familiar noise coming from the nearby valley. Rousse looked around them with a worried look on his face. He made a notion for him to hide behind the sycamore tree and went for his mare. He grabbed the wooden pole and his dagger and run to the edge of the small Holt near their camp. The distinct sound of horses was coming to him clearer now. Three, maybe four mounts. Big horses, coming from the way of the village. _Had the publican followed them after all?_ No time for guessing games, they would be upon them in less than a minute.

They had to make a stand here.

"Can you use a pole?" he asked Rousse, who popped his head behind the trunk of the tree. His eyes said no, but he threw him the makeshift spear anyway. "Time to learn" he told him.

Rousse gathered the pole from the ground and stood still with his back on the trunk looking nothing but confident. _He would draw them there, an easy prey for a good trap_ , he thought and moved to prepare his primitive ambush.

Philip fell on the ground, near the end of the Holt, just a second before the first rider turned the corner and came upon them. Seeing Rousse standing in plain sight by the sycamore tree, he pulled violently at the reins and halted his grey stallion. Philip had gotten up from a point almost behind the rider and attacked him as quickly as he could. He reached the horse and he leaped high with his dagger in one hand, sword in the other. The man grew as he flew towards him, chain-mail-armor, worn over a fine brown linen tunic. _A Saracen_ , thought Philip, but it was too late to change anything. He was upon him and he stabbed him hard with the dagger on the right side of his neck. The man uttered a guttural sound of pain and as Philip's body connected with him, they both fell from the saddle to the damp ground.

Philip lost the handle on his dagger, so he rolled and gotten up on his feet lifting his sword, as the second Saracen, a giant black man, with a red turban on his head came upon his fallen comrade. The man was trying to speak, he had blood on his hands and more was pouring on his light armor from his open wound. He held Philip's dagger in his hands, but the fight had left him, he was dying fast. The black Saracen yelled a terrible battle cry and charged him, turning his horse -a white mare- on him. The animal made an angry neigh and Philip saw it coming, its head growing, its nostrils shooting white steam.

He managed to step out of its way in the last second and using his sword he cut it deep above the knee-cap. The animal neighed miserably and tumbled, lost its footing and collapsed along with its cargo on the ground. He closed in on the rider to finish him off but he heard feet hitting the ground and turned his head to the sound.

He saw Rousse rushing towards him, the wooden pole in his hands. As he approached, he lowered it and yelled for him to get out of the way. He did as he was told and a second later the third rider passed him galloping at full speed. He made a desperate attempt to lift his sword and catch him as he flew by him but he was too late. The third Saracen wearing a black turncoat rode on Rousse, waving a large sword in his hand.

The healer lifted his pole and its burned tip pierced the animal through its chest causing it to stand on two feet with a terrible neigh. The pole had broken in two, a large piece was stuck on the horse and blood gushed out the wound, splashing a terrified Rousse on the face. Its rider kept his composure and jumped from its saddle cursing the blond man.

Philip run as fast as he could towards them, but before he could reach them, someone tackled him from behind. He fell down hard hurting his shoulder. Rousse started screaming as he tried desperately to clear his head from the pain, watching the black Saracen, with his face distorted from the pain approaching him. The man was limping heavily on his left foot.

"You Devil of a man.' The man spat at him. 'I'll make you puke your guts" he was holding an axe in his right hand and he wielded it at him trying to cut off his head. He had to win this one fast, Philip thought, as he dodged it with his sword. _The healer won't last a minute_. His shoulder burnt him but he attacked the taller man, ignoring the pain. They parried. His first attack was repelled, but the man was slow and his weapon unfit for close quarters combat. Philip slashed off three of his fingers in his next attack and the man lost the axe. He growled from the pain, but he charged him again trying to struggle him with his bare hands. Philip hit him again, as he jumped back, cutting off a large piece of flesh from his chest along with his right nipple and then moving to the left, he severed his hand right at the elbow. Blood splashed on him as the man fell badly crippled face first, on the muddy soil.

Philip turned and followed the screams of the still alive, _thank the Goddess_ , Rousse. He found him trying to hide behind the large trunk of the tree as the third Saracen kept slashing at him with menace. Philip approached them confidently, heart pumping in his chest, but it was not from fear. He was excited, the adrenalin easing the pain in his shoulder. He reclaimed his dagger from the hands of the dead now first rider, wiped it on his leather coat and with a hard commanding voice he stopped the next attack of the Saracen.

"I will not run." He told him defiantly. The man turned, his black eyes first looking startled and then filling up with rage.

"Oh, you will run...' the man told him, his face an evil mask. He wielded with menace his large sword, a saber, using both his hands. '...to the seven hells. Joined by your whore mother and the rest of your kin." He tried to hit him, but Philip dodged his attack, the blades clashing with a sharp sound. "I'll slice your balls off and eat them." The Saracen said and charged him again, his saber slashing the air but he blocked it again. The blades came together with sparks spurting right and left. The man tried to punch him, but he was faster and he stubbed him with his dagger low in his abdomen. The blade pierced coat and soft belly flesh. It went in to the hilt. The man stepped back with a muffled sound of pain. He tried to dislodge the dagger but his feet almost gave away from under him. He trembled visibly, staring the blood running down between his legs.

"I have no origins." Philip said in a passionless tone and he attacked him with another piercing move. The man repelled it a little late, the tip of his sword chopping off a piece of his nose. The Saracen cried and blinded by pain tried to retaliate using blunt force. The saber slashed at him but he repelled it and when it came again, Philip quickstepped back, attacking with his own weapon at the same time. The saber missed again, but he didn't. He caught the Saracen right on the jaw; the blade cut off the bone, broke his teeth and mauled the lower portion of his face. The man collapsed on his knees. Blood was spurting out of his wounds, his face had become a hideous horror mask, but he was not dead. Philip pressed the tip of his blade just above his jugular. He saw with the corner of his eye Rousse emerging behind the trunk and then walking slowly towards him. _Still alive_ , he thought, _that is a fine development_ and pushed the blade in all the way. The man was dead before he hit the ground.

"Goddess!" Rousse gasped.

"Are you unharmed?" he asked him.

"I don't know... but I feel terrible."

Philip pulled his dagger from the dead Saracen. He looked at him, his expression was hard, unyielding, but his voice showed indifference.

"You will be fine." He pointed at the bodies he had just killed. "We'll have to get their weapons and that fine stallion. It's time, you ride alone."

Rousse stared at him dumbfounded.

_Stupid man_ , Philip thought. _Untrained and soft. You'd better be a damn good healer._

.

Azis al Qatil was an impressive man. Standing at six-feet and one, he had a warrior's built, big muscled arms, strong thighs and a well defined torso. His face was square and handsome, his eyes a clear olive black. A light colored scar marred it on his left side, running from the ear to his nose, a reminiscent of the skirmishes, he had participated for the past seven years. He had worked hard during this time, he thought as he left his black stallion behind him and walked towards the spot where his men had laid the corpses. _His men..._ the thought bothered him and a grimace of discomfort appeared on his face. Their men gathered themselves, his temper was renowned.

"One of them was still alive." A brave one dared to voice. He shot him a venomous look.

"He had no name, this... _one-of-them_?" The man lowered his eyes to the ground.

"Ilan, my liege. He was Nizam's brother." He said quickly and then he continued. "He said two fair-haired men ambushed them."

"Fair... he meant Normans?" So far from their land, _that is strange_ , he thought. Azis stared at the cold bodies laid in front him. The men had multiple sword injuries, they were crippled, butchered. They were good, strong and loyal men, their fate was hard, their journey ended in pain.

Insha'Allah.

"Kismet, my liege." A young Moorish soldier that was standing next to him said. _Kismet_ , thought Azis, _a man's travel is prearranged, his time already measured,_ but still... he noticed the bloodied wound on the neck of one the dead. A familiar dagger wound.

"Else met his demise from a similar wound, I should say. Did he not?" he said in a careful tone and one of his older soldiers had knelt over the corpse to examine it more closely.

"I believe it is the same." He told him after a few moments and his soul rejoiced but he managed to keep his composure. Azis closed his eyes and recalled the mad ravings of a soldier they had found wandering, days after the attack on the outpost.

The attack had cost him, twenty five men and three of his best lieutenants. They had failed to capture the sister of al-Isbunah's governor, an extremely important pawn in his plan to draw the royal bastard out of the safety of the city and its garrison. He had spent four years preparing his plan and everything had gone down the drain in a matter of months. He knew the Caliph's General would be extremely displeased and that meant only one thing, his head was standing on borrowed time, on his shoulders.

But suddenly new hope had sparkled in him. They had witnessed a macabre sight when they had entered the burned down outpost, no sigh of the Princess or the men that had taken her. Else lay dead and rotting some distance from the outpost, killed by a dagger wound on the neck. The only survivor a low-life coward, talked about magic, eastern demons and dragon fires. _Madness and lies_ he had thought. The man was dead by his own hand, but his words had come back now to haunt him. He had heard stories of an Asian warlock, traveling with his white boy-whore, maybe the same one he had almost captured three years ago. Merchants had seen them, taken their gold, they had eluded him for so long, he had almost forgotten about them. _A blond boy_ , he thought, his mind racing, _and an Asian man_. An Asian had attacked the outpost and butchered his men, taken his price and then disappeared. But the boy was still out there setting traps, maybe they were still traveling together, a pack of thieving hyenas, always circling him and maybe the Princess, oh-by-the-love-of-the-Prophet, was still with them.

He opened his eyes, a crooked smile on his lips. He looked into the pupils of a large black man, wearing a white turban on his head. The man stared back at him silently. His eyes had a yellowish color and they've told him that he understood his intentions.

"Find them Nizam, find the infidels that killed your brother." He told him and the massive man showed him two rows of white teeth. _Two horses,_ Azis thought, _four, maybe five hours, of head-start._ Maybe kismet was on their side after all.

.

They rode their animals to exhaustion. Seven straight hours later they had to stop, the thick snow making it impossible to see, much less travel. They camped beside a huge fallen trunk and built a small fire. Wrapped up in blankets, hungry and dead tired they tried to pass their time staring at the flames. The sun was hidden behind dark clouds making the day as dark as night and the wind whipped their bodies with menace, freezing limbs and making breathing a painful practice.

Philip heard a howling coming from afar and thought about the strange grey wolf. _Was the animal still following him?_ Every time it'd appeared to him in the past something had happened. He cleared his mind from what he believed where foolish thoughts. _Yep, he was getting crazier by the minute_. A grin appeared on his lips.

"Exactly how old are you?" Rousse asked interrupting his thoughts, raising his voice to mask the sound of the storm.

"I guess I'll be eighteen or nineteen winters in a few days." He told him indifferently.

"You don't know?"

"The blacksmith never knew exactly and I never really cared to find out."

"I still can't believe you've killed those men."

_Oh, great_. Philip thought, _here goes._

"Listen—" he tried to explain, but he stopped him.

.

"Did you even know them? They were not from the village; they were Muslims for Goddess sake! A war party patrolling the area in sultan's orders for all we know." almost shouting at him now. _Actually strike that, he was shouting at him._ Philip closed his eyes and wished he could do the same for his ears without moving his hands from under the blankets. "All the Moorish soldiers from here to Lisbon will be after us, after that." Rousse went on.

"I doubt it. These men worked for the caliph of Cordoba." He said opening his eyes to look at him.

"How could you possibly know that? We didn't even ask them. You skipped that part and went straight to the killing. And how is them working for the Caliph, a better thing?" Philip rolled his eyes.

"The Governor of Lisbon can't control these lands, so the Caliph's generals dictate the law here; their men are roaming the countryside for years. These men I slain and others of their kind, are hunting me since I was a little boy. They belong to a warband under a man called Azis al Qatil."

"Azis the killer is hunting you since you were a boy?" Rousse voice was lower now.

"Let's just say we have something now, he badly wants for himself."

"You mean you stole from him? What... are you crazy?"

Philip's face had become serious.

"I did no such thing! Stop talking for things, you know nothing about." He scowled him, but Rousse let out a sigh of exasperation and returned his stare with courage.

"I am riding with you! They attacked us... we could have died back there."

"So now you think, I shouldn't have asked them any questions, am I right?"

Rousse didn't answer him. Instead he stared at the fire and the snow melting on the warm lumps. Philip tried to steer the conversation to another matter.

"Why were those men in the tavern hunting you?" he asked him.

"We had a misunderstanding."

_Yeah right_.

"It seemed stronger than that." He insisted.

"There was a girl at the tavern, she was really friendly."

Philip felt his interest peaked. He had been _friendly_ with a girl himself but he had heard enough to understand there was more to it. Like a wine-barrel more and he had but a cup.

"Was she fair?" Rousse gave him a grin.

"Aye, she was fair. Now you are interested? Now it is relevant?"

Philip shrugged his shoulders.

"You mentioned she was friendly. I supposed you meant she was being nice."

"No I meant I bedded her, you know... fornicate? Where have you lived man?"

Philip blessed the dark hiding his red face.

"Was she a whore?" he knew of these women, had seen them working in some of the bigger villages.

Rousse laughed at that.

"That's what I've thought, but it turned out she was the publican's daughter. Can you imagine my surprise when he walked in on us?" The thought still made him uneasy but the look on Philip's face was priceless.

"You've got no feelings for her?" He asked him and Rousse sighed looking at the fire.

"I left my clothes in her room. I don't suppose she's gonna hand them back to me anytime soon. I have very strong feelings for me-leather coat, right now."

"Your... you are a heartless rogue, you know that?"

Rousse gave him a toothy smile.

"Said the saint that ended three men some hours ago."

Philip made a sound very close to a growl and turned his head from him.

_Stupid, ungrateful bastard_ , he thought. _Of all the healers_ , he had to end up with him.

For a while none of them spoke. Rousse got up and threw another log in the fire and when he sat back down he cleared his throat and said in a steady voice.

"That was the second time you saved my skin in as many days. No one had ever done that for me in my life. Thank you Philip, I am not ungrateful for that."

"I didn't do it because I like you."

Rousse grinned at him.

"You lie. But I will help the girl anyway. I consider myself in your debt."

Philip muttered something but the storm had drowned it. The night came making the dark heavier and they slept till the early morning.

.

They reached the cave where Philip had left the Asian with the sick girl just four days ago, some time before noon. The snow had covered the trees and the ground, the white nature around them making their eyes hurt.

"Where is he?" Rousse was starving and was impatient to reach their sheltered destination as soon as Philip had shown him to the mouth of the cave. The light of a fire greeted them as they approached. They helped the animals into the large cave and left them next to an indifferent for his reappearance, 'Emperor'. _The mule hadn't miss him_ , Philip thought, _well neither did he_.

"You make more noise than a couple of drunken women."

Xe had appeared behind them holding his sword but his voice had a soft tone. He pointed to the direction of the girl. "She is better, I think." Philip turned to their new companion.

"Bring your medicines." He told him.

.

(A day later...)

Rousse was adamant. They had to remove her robes.

"She must be cleaned; the clothes washed well, cleansed from the illness and aired. She can cover herself with blankets until I dry them in the fire."

The two other men seemed unwilling to comply. The young healer insisted.

"You'll have to do it," he looked at Philip, "because she trusts you more. You must explain to her—"

"She is not supposed to be seen by any man, before her wedding night." Philip told him, repeating the girl's words to them, the eve of the first day they had tried to convince her.

"Of course she's not. She's Muslim. It was a stupid move to take her in the first place. Sorry, clothes have to go. Explain to her... again."

"We didn't take... can you please let me speak to her?"

Rousse rolled his eyes. He gave a stare to the Asian who had taken a disapproving look on his face. He gave up with a loud sigh.

"Okay, say whatever it is, you wish to say." He said, but didn't move from his spot.

Philip's eyes locked on him with deadly intent.

"Go.Now."

The Asian grabbed Rousse by the shoulder and led him to the mouth of the cave.

"You and me. We gather lumps, to make bigger fire." He told him in his almost comic accent.

Philip waited for them to exit and then he approached the girl. The moment he knelt beside her cot, the girl opened her eyes.

"Saida..." he started but she stopped him.

"I heard you." Her soft voice held more strength, she was getting better. The fever had left her and hadn't returned, but she was still too weak to stand on her own. A light blush covered her cheeks as she lifted the almost transparent yashmak. "I don't want them to see me." She lowered her eyes. "Will you hold the blanket for me?"

Philip nodded and grabbed the blanket to screen her as she lifted herself. Her robe fell on the ground, followed by a silk undergarment she wore beneath. She was naked and Philip willed himself not to look at her body. His eyes wandered first at her feminine shoulders and stayed there but as the girl turned her back, to let him cover her with the blanket, he couldn't help himself. He had taken her whole figure in. The perfect round breasts, with nipples as dark, as the finest chocolate, the shapely thighs and the sway of her hips, as she moved. Her skin had a dark creamy look, a flawless perfection. Then the blanket covered her and he realized that he had stopped breathing. He still had his hands on her shoulders; it had taken all of his strength to remove them and he made two quick steps backwards to gather himself. Philip had never felt such a strong attraction to a female before, his breath had returned ragged, his hands were trembling lightly and he realized that his cock strained his pants. He felt boiling blood running through him, clouding his vision.

Goddess, he prayed, clenching his fists until his knuckles became white.

"Can I have them clothes now?" it was Rousse, he hadn't heard him returning; his face turned red and hurried to gather the robes and undergarments from the ground. The man gave him a dubious look. "Are you okay boss?" Philip attempted to speak but only a muffled sound came out, he waved in the general direction of the entrance and stormed out of the cave to escape, leaving Rousse behind him, sporting a wide grin on his face.

The Asian tackled him the moment he went outside, grateful for the first time for the weather.

"Where did you find him?" he asked. It was a simple question albeit delivered in Xe's characteristic rude manner, but Philip had to concentrate hard to speak the words.

"A town, a day's journey, from here."

"He had no decent clothes on him?" again in that disapproving tone.

_What was the old man's problem?_ He gave him a side stare.

"He had... no clothes... on him. I had to improvise." Xe nodded not terribly surprised by the fact.

"A wise decision. Considering the weather." Philip laughed at his comment, his tension melting away but Xe added sounding worried. "Anyone's coming after you?"

"I had to kill three of Azis' men, a day back. I don't think they followed me."

"Are you sure?"

Oh hell.

No, he wasn't.

"You think..." The older man waved him to silence. He looked around them, but all he could see, was snow covered trees and frozen land.

"We have to reach Lisbon and return the girl. It is a great disadvantage to us, traveling with her."

Philip didn't answer him. He was right of course, but he had no problem traveling with Saida. The memory of her body returned and he willed his mind to behave. He had to think about something else, anything. The Asian was watching him closely, he seemed even more troubled now, but Philip couldn't understand the reason, everything around them seemed normal.

He had a big head-start. The weather had gotten worse and made tracking them almost impossible. The cold was as good a deterrent as an armed escort. Someone had to be extremely fanatical, to risk life and limb, just to catch up with them; and for what? An Asian, two young men and a girl.

They had to be safe.

Why then the old man looked so damn worried?

The snow had stopped falling. A dim light broke through the thick clouds and the smoke was rising from the mouth of their cave, a white dancing haze.

-

The younger of the two weapon-bearers that shared his prison approached him unable to hide his satisfaction.

" _I told you, the old man will never give you the chance you seek. He is wise and careful. He isn't letting him near the weapons and now his interest shifted to the girl, already dreaming of love and eternal devotion. You have failed Dar-Ible."_

" _Sometimes an opportunity arises through the most unfortunate circumstances.' He said not wanting to admit defeat. 'One must simply be prepared to seize the moment."_

" _It is impossible to touch the outside." The man commented and then angrily "YOU CAN'T!"_

" _Perhaps it is so...' He said pausing to watch the young couple talk. Actually they weren't a couple yet but they very well could be, he thought and added 'in our realm. But we aren't there anymore."_

" _You can't touch the outside." The weapon-bearer repeated in calmer voice but he could already hear the doubt creeping in._

Much more than a memory, he thought. Like talking to a real person.

" _Actually,' he corrected him with an evil smirk 'I already have."_

__

"That's the second time that you saved my life." Saida said completely covered with the blankets. Only part of her face was visible to him. A fine part nonetheless, Philip thought.

"The healer did most of the work."

Philip stared away trying to hide his nervousness.

"My people say that if a man rescues a woman from danger three times, Allah then offers him her life as a reward. Sometimes a high lord could be persuaded..."

"That sounds cruel...' Philip started but hearing the girl gasp in surprise he cursed himself and attempted a refute '...in a honorable kinda way." Not really understanding what they were talking about.

"A woman must obey." Saida said and then in a lower voice. "but of course her heart could lie."

"Or it can tell her the truth." He added and the girl smiled to his words.

"Insha'Allah." She said hiding her face behind the thick blankets.

Philip kept watching her out the corner of his eye until sleep claimed her. For a while he listened to her soft breathing, another clear sign that she had recovered completely, feeling extremely pleased with his life. Then his eyelids grew heavier and he slept.

.

The military drums could be heard approaching the great city; the English soldiers were singing in unison 'here's forty shillings on the drum...'

All was lost.

The silver brush shattered the large mirror of her boudoir and her image became distorted from a thousand small cracks. She had to leave the capital. Time was running out. The 'Tribe' was getting restless. There was a knock, the door opened and Pasqual's head appeared.

" _Mademoiselle Anne..."_

" _Ah oui, Pasqual."_

" _Il est ici."_

She gestured to let him in; her own face stared at her from the broken mirror sporting a myriad expressions. Was this the face of a princess? She thought. You came a long way, she told her reflection and it answered her with a broken smile.

The drums could be heard approaching the city; the English soldiers were singing 'to 'list and fight the foe today...' when the one the others called 'Los-sin-casa' entered the room.

.

Saida wrapped up in the wool blankets, had her back turned to him. They weren't sleeping anymore. He had tried to initiate some kind of a conversation a couple of times in the last hour, but his words came out hollow and an awkward silence always followed between them. He was a tong-tied-fool around her, that's what Rousse had said and he sadly believed the damn rogue was right in this one. Speaking of the Devil the man appeared at the entrance of the cave, rubbing his limbs to increase his body's heat, cursing the weather and the luck of honeyed wine.

"Is it that bad?" Philip asked him and he nodded it was.

"Where is the old guy?"

"He rode to the end of the passage to check for tracks, he is a little paranoid." Rousse said. Philip moved towards him frowning.

"Who is guarding outside then?" Rousse shrugged his shoulders.

"I am, but there is nothing moving out there—"

Philip didn't let him finish he run to the mouth of the cave cursing him.

"Stupid incompetent, good-for-nothing, fool!"

The cold whipped his face hard, upon exiting the cave, but the surrounding area seemed empty. He concentrated trying to hear the trot of the 'Emperor' but he heard nothing but the wind. He turned back to get his sword from the cave and saw Rousse coming towards him with a grin on his face.

"Told you." The young healer said.

.

' _The flames coming from the huge fireplace were illuminating the Demon's face creating different shapes, some were grotesque, others strangely beautiful. He remained silent toying with the weapon-bearer's nerves, could actually feel him on his back tensing up getting angrier with every passing moment until he couldn't contain himself anymore. His warning was heard clearly through the realms._

IT'S A TRAP!'

.

.

The ground shook under his feet. Pieces of rock fell from the roof of the cave and the sound of a loud explosion coming from somewhere afar scared the animals. Something flew whistling over his head and Rousse screamed in pain on his back. Another whistling sound and this time Philip saw an arrow breaking in two on the rock wall.

"Run inside!" He yelled turning towards the healer, but Rousse had collapsed on the ground an arrow sticking out his belly. He was not moving. Philip jumped over him and rushed into the cave searching for his weapons. Another arrow flew above him and another and then he heard clearly commands being given in the Moorish tongue. _They had found them,_ he thought and located his sword in a scabbard he had on his horse. He tried to reach for it, but he was grabbed from behind and pulled violently back. Someone lifted him on the air like he was weightless and threw him on the side of the cave.

.

The damn Asian had killed six of his men with his witchery. The men had been literally been blown to pieces and their scattered remains had fallen all over the rest of them. Azis was beside himself with rage. One of his men managed to hit him at last with a war hammer and the small Asian fell from his animal. He ordered his men to attack him, realizing he had trouble speaking coherently, his head hurting, his ears bleeding but his will remained unbroken. Azis wouldn't back down. One of his lieutenants turned towards him.

"The girl sir?" He asked.

"Nizam will get the girl." Azis told him, tasting his own blood. "Kill the yellow Devil."

.

Philip landed on the rock surface and hurt the right side of his head. He felt disorientated, his vision blurred. Someone kicked his ribs and sent him tumbling three meters away. Philip felt a bone cracking and the pain turned his stomach. He almost fainted but he managed to gather himself and stare at the man coming towards him with large strides. His skin was black and his arms had more muscle on them than he had on his thighs. He was holding a large curved sword, a saif. The Nubian slashed at him and tore his shirt in two pieces and when he tried to run past him, grabbed him by the neck and his large fingers pressed like damn pliers, sealing his windpipes. Philip couldn't breathe; his lungs started burning as he desperately tried to free himself from this iron grip. The man carried him towards the center of the cave, groaning and kicking, where he lowered him to the ground.

"I told myself,' he spoke with a thick African accent. 'Nizam, cut off his head. Eat his eyes and make a bracelet with his teeth."

Philip had almost lost consciousness. The man relaxed his grip to let him draw a small breath. Then he spoke again.

"But I was expecting a grown man...' Philip felt the big hand moving on his skin, passing his naked chest, stopping just above his collarbone. '...instead I found a mere boy." The man shifted, moving one knee between his legs and pulled him closer. He panicked and tried to free himself, but the Nubian used both his hands to hold him still. "I told myself,' Nizam continued, 'why not bed this one? He is all white and soft. Make a bitch out of him, teach him obedience."

His mind went numb. _Goddess, this isn't happening_. Philip gathered whatever strength remained in him, only one thought in his head. He had to get away.

Then Saida's scream tore through the cave and the blood froze in his veins.

.

The third man approaching the Asian cried in pain as the blow separated his hand from his body. The limb fell on the ground painting the snow a deep red color. The next man attacked him with a spear but he moved as fast as a tiger to avoid him, making quick small backward steps. Never losing sight of the soldier, he attacked while retreating with a slash, that severed the top side of the soldier's head and then jumping forward in an acrobatic move, he stroked again beheading his last lieutenant, not ten paces away. Azis watched in disbelief as the severed head rolled past him, living a bloody trail behind. He had enough of that yellow skinned Devil. Azis turned his horse ready to charge him.

"Get him!" He ordered the rest of his soldiers and the men attacked him all at once.

Azis didn't follow them though. He was ready to proceed, but he held back at the last moment. Then he turned his horse completely around and started galloping hard towards the east.

Azis left them behind, handling nervously the reins of his horse as he rode hard towards their camp. He had heard a whistle, above the sounds of the battle. That meant they had the princess. Damn the Asian, I will deal with him another time and that only if he manages to escape, which seems rather unlikely. Seven against one, he was devilishly good, but he was not immortal. A crooked smile had appeared on his face. In the end he would also fall just like the rest of them.

.

"Get the girl to the camp!" Nizam ordered his friend and the Saracen immediately responded grabbing Saida from the waist and dragging her with him towards the exit of their cave.

A feeling of desperation seized Philip, seeing the man leaving with her. Knowing he had to act fast, he lowered his leg a little searching for room and then gathering his strength, he kicked as hard he could upwards. His knee landed between the man's legs, mashing his balls and Nizam with a howling sound fell backwards freeing him. Philip was on his feet the next moment, his breath coming out with difficulty and he attempted to run towards his horse, but Nizam using his long right arm tripped him again grabbing at his leg. He fell face first on the hard ground and hurt his head at the exact same spot as before. The skin on his skull opened up and blood run down his neck. His strength was depleted and he turned slowly to face the Nubian, who let out another growling inhuman sound and reached him in an instance. A giant black fist traveling like a shooting star found him on the side of his face and cracked his jaw, breaking a couple of his teeth along the way. Philip's knees gave away and he fell on them, tasting his blood, the left side of his face a bruised mess.

The shadow of the black ogre covered him. _Think!_ He urged his battered brain, _and do so fast, else being fucked will be the least of your worries._

"By the time I finish tearing your asshole, it will take my whole arm in with ease." Nizam told him his voice masked with anger. Philip was standing up slowly, but he could hardly see from his left eye, had lost at least two teeth and his tongue was torn making it difficult to speak. _I can't fight like this_ , he thought. _Not fairly_. He lowered his hands in defeat.

"Ok...ay." Philip told the Nubian and the large man frowned looking at him with disbelief.

"What's this? You surrender... why, you cowardly whore!"

Philip attempted to lick his lips, but he couldn't feel his tongue. He seemed like he had trouble standing upright. _Fuck it_ , he thought.

"I ca...n't take a...nymore." He coughed blood and he almost fell down, Nizam reached him and put his hands on his shoulders. "Don't...hurt...me..." he whispered to him. The large man grinned showing his white teeth.

"It will be pain first, and then pleasure." The Nubian told him and started pulling him near his massive torso.

Philip parted his lips wantonly, using whatever mental recourses he had left to avoid backing away or throwing up and when the unsuspecting Nizam's face came upon him he pulled back a little as if he'd lost his balance and then head-butted him, connecting squarely with his nose, breaking it. It felt as if he'd cracked his own skull in the process.

Philip thought he heard the sound of a whistle between the muffled curses of the Nubian as the man let him go and covered his bloodied face.

"Damn you to hell, fucking whore!" the man cursed in agonizing pain and then for whatever reason silence followed, but Philip didn't care he was already limping as fast as he could master towards his weapons, the moment the ogre had released him. He reached for his horse almost falling down a couple of times and rapidly unsheathed his sword from its scabbard. He then turned around to face Nizam gulping his own blood, only to realize that the cave was now empty.

The perverted bastard had left. His knees gave away again and he collapsed on the ground. Pain tore through him and he felt like giving up, he closed his eyes; even that small move pained him, he felt more dead than tired.

They had taken her.

The thought had pierced his sub-consciousness. With an animalistic groan he stood upright surprising even himself and slowly went up his horse. Balancing with difficulty on the saddle, Philip gathered the pieces of his torn shirt and wore his leather coat directly on his skin. He put a piece of linen cloth, he tore from his ruined shirt, in his mouth to constrict somewhat the bleeding and pulling at the reins, he sent his mare out of the cave.

Once outside Philip found out that the tracks of the horses had created clear marks on the snow so he started following them, the pain gnawing at him from all angles. His head was hurting and he felt his blood running under the coat, he had several broken ribs and he could see only from his right side. His face was pale and his eyes had a haunted look, he was half dead and half alive. One thought was the only force, driving him forward.

He was going to get her back.

.

" _The old warrior won't give in." The weapon-bearer said to him, which was just his own mind worrying, restless after years of near misses, but of course he knew better. Closing his eyes he concentrated on finding the animal._

His chance was coming fast.

.

### Part IV

### .

(Azis Al Qatil)

.

Rousse didn't want to die.

The arrow had hurt him badly; he could feel it moving inside his guts. The young man kicked with his legs trying to get up, a horrible/idiotic idea as the pain almost ripped him apart. Rousse groaned like a dying dog and with his hands clenching the shaft of the arrow near the vane, he tried to pull it out of him. Another insane attempt. He almost lost consciousness this time, his face grimacing with despair and almost throwing up, which panicked -more like- scared him shitless that he _would_ _actually_ puke his guts out. Searching inside him for remnants of courage Rousse gathered his strength and managed to slowly move and then stand on two shaky legs. A Saracen dragging Saida with him exited the cave and he attempted to move against him. He only made a couple of steps before the pain stopped him dead. The man saw him out the corner of his eye but he ignored him completely; with a look of pity in his eyes, he got the girl on his horse and lifting a strange wooden call on his lips, blew hard. A loud whistle sound was heard. Then the man turned the horse and started galloping away. _I have to follow him_ , thought Rousse. He had to do something.

Anything.

No, you will not.

The voice had penetrated the veils of pain that surrounded him. A woman's voice. He tried to move again but an unknown force pulled him back violently. Rousse fell, his hands trying desperately to grasp onto something, his eyes seeing the sky above him change, from a dark cloudy blue to the rich brown of wood.

He was not outside anymore. Rousse had landed on a bundle of straw and the pain in his belly burned him like hot iron. He blinked hard trying to clear his vision and when he opened his eyes again, he saw what appeared to be a very old woman wearing a wretched dress, with very long white hair, stooping over him. Rousse tried to speak but the woman, gestured him to silence. Her voice was ancient, but in a strange manner Rousse felt being embraced in a warm and friendly feeling.

_You will not die,_ the woman told him.

Her hazel eyes shifted, their color went from light gold to green, catching the lights of the wooden cabin.

Ever...

If so is your yearning.

.

The mare gave a little neigh that waked him up. Philip opened his eyes and saw only the night surrounding him. He had dosed off. His back hurt after riding for hours, his ribs made it too painful for him to shift and his face had swollen terribly. As for his left eye it had almost closed off completely. But he couldn't quit now. Philip could hear them camping at the end of the valley. Twenty or so men, thirty horses. Azis' warband had been reduced in size considerably, but the task still seemed impossible, especially in his pitiful condition. He puffed heavily and tried to dismount, his body complaining vigorously all the time. It had taken twice his normal time to do it and he paused for a minute holding onto the horse, for the frosty wind to revive him. _He couldn't quit now_ , he repeated to himself.

"Sometimes it is best to wait...'

The Asian had appeared from the undergrowth, barely visible in the darkness. '...to catch the enemy at a disadvantage."

Xe walked towards him, his small frame seeming even smaller now, compared to that of the large horse that followed him. "Emperor had taken a blow; he didn't want to come with me this time." He explained seeing him checking the animal.

"You don't seem unscathed yourself." Philip managed to say noticing he wore a crude arm-sling on his right hand. Xe had stopped a couple of feet from him.

"I fear it is broken. Nothing more can be done at this time." He told him matter-of-factly.

"You think, we should wait then?" The Asian pointed at his face.

"No, unfortunately I don't think we have a choice in the matter."

"I'm okay." Philip said, a grimace of pain killing his argument.

Xe stared quietly for awhile at the camp's fires, not far from them. Moorish songs could be heard clearly, the Asian seemed to listen to them for some time as if trying to catch their tune, then he made a gesture towards the two big rocks, each over four meters in height, Philip had passed earlier. They were standing at around two hundred meters from their position.

"Then we will camp there." He told him at last. "See if we can make you better."

.

Xe tried to patch him up -a difficult task as he could use only his left hand himself- as best as he could. He wrapped a clean linen cloth around his waist, crudely stabilizing his torso and cleaned up the rest of his wounds putting a healing salve on them. He had a serious expression on his face during his ministrations. The Asian knew that the young man was in no condition, to continue the effort. His left eye was still only half opened, he had cuts and bruises from previous fights and two broken ribs, which had to be healed before even attempting to climb up a horse. Philip looked dead tired, pale and at the end of his strength. But in a few hours, they had to fight again. Xe, on the other hand, could only use his left arm and that of course was not a small problem in itself, plus he had no more explosive powder and no time to make new, so he badly needed the young man. He had promised him, adventures, titles and gold. Looking at his strained face now, as Philip bit at his lower lip trying to conceal the pain, Xe wondered if had given him an early death instead.

His eyes went to his backpack. There, in two scabbards mounted left and right, were his swords. The weapons he had brought with him from his homeland, a journey he had started fifteen years ago.

.

Xe had left the Chinese empire and his Tang dynasty, in the summer of 953 AD; he had traveled the vastness of the Tibetan kingdoms and had reached the lands of the Saffarid Dynasty in 956 AD. He stayed there for almost a year learning about the old world from Abu Ja'far Ahmad' the greatest ruler of this era. Abu had told him about the weapon-bearers, after instantly recognizing the swords that were in his family's possession for more than two hundred years. He told him of their real names, 'bouillir du sang' and 'Wolf's cry', about their strengths and their ancient secrets. The stories that were connected with their existence and the purpose they were serving. It was a miracle they were in his hands; he had told him, admiring the craftsmanship of the weapons. No man had wielded them in great many years and they were presumed lost, a myth. When Xe left him in the winter of 957 AD, he had realized that the reason of his journeys lay in faraway lands, further away that he had anticipated to ever traveling when he had first started his search for truth.

_Xe reached the Byzantine Empire in 960 AD and became familiar with a member of 'the Lodge of Cognitive' the 1_ st _Magister Nesafer. The man showed him in a library filled with ancient writings, among others a collection of the rarest parchments ever written by man, which he called the 'Dark Notes'. Reading them he discovered wondrous things and disturbing truths about this and the other worlds. What Nesafer called the three Realms. Surprised he found, buried under layers of ancient dust, writings he strongly believed that they didn't exist, like the one presumably written by a Greek madman, the infamous 'Book of Walks' or 'the Prophecies' of the elusive, self-proclaimed non-human, Marius the Historian. With their help the Asian deciphered at last the name of the ancient evil clan, which was to be one the final enemies of this world._

Armed with new determination he journeyed again by boat and reached the Frankish kingdoms in 961 AD. The magister had given him a clue of his own to guide him through, after he also examined for himself the 'Living Swords' as he called them, in great length. He then spoke to him about 'the Rootless' the biggest weapon-bearer of them all, according to the scrolls, the only one who could wield the 'Prison sword', a legendary cursed sword feared by all. 'This is his time' Nesafer had said to him. 'It is said, that when the 'Prison Sword' comes from the East-lands the 'Rootless' will appear briefly in our time and wield it. That must be the sword you are carrying Xe.' He disagreed with his logic but Nesafer insisted 'it must be the same, too much of a coincidence and think of it, you family kept it hidden for more than two hundred wears. I argue not that it is the thought as lost 'Wolf's Cry', there are no doubts about it but maybe it is a lot more than that. It could be a sword hidden, in another sword.' Xe had promised him that he would search for that man and bring him back if he could to Constantinople, while given the time, help the new governor of Lisbon, a loyal member of the 'Lodge', in whatever he needed.

The young orphan, he picked up in the last part of his journey, had taken up that role, but he never really believed that the young man despite his strength of spirit and extraordinary bravery was a Weapon-Bearer and looking at him now, Xe doubted the whole plan. Philip would never survive, in his current state, their next confrontation with Azis, unless...

.

His eyes stayed on his backpack. The alabaster head of the wolf that adorned the butt cap of the sword, glared back at him ominously. The beast's red ruby eyes, shined taking in the light of the smallish camp fire they had built, mainly to melt snow in a tin cup. He kept on looking at the sword making out more of its details, its small open jaws, showing clearly the sharp fangs, the way its body enveloped the sword-handle, its long tail wrapped around the hand guard. _Maybe not, too much of a risk, better to give him the 'Sang le bouillir',_ he thought and at that time the ever so familiar to him beast's voice, a menacing hissing sound, pierced his mind.

Let him have us.

Xe turned his stare to Philip who had his eyes half closed with the flames of the fire dancing on his face.

He is a wielder of weapons. We know, we recognize, we told you so. A very special one. We want him, we need to connect...

_Oh, shut up_. Xe thought. This sword was full of lies. It could not be trusted; it had an agenda of its own. On the other hand, it had saved his skin, more times than he cared to remember.

_Yes_ , the weapon's voice said, _many times over. We provide, we protect, and we know the danger._

It could keep the youngster alive, Xe thought, at least even up the odds. The sword glowed suddenly. A green eerie light shot out of it, illuminating the night around them in its green splendor. It bathed them in it. Philip's voice, full of wonder reached him.

"What was... that, Xe?"

The Asian looked at him, his face sporting a haunted expression.

"That Philip was the _Wolf's Cry,_ the sword I've never let you touch until this day." He told him. "A sword built to kill the Gods."

The sword glowed again that strange green light burning as strong as a flare in the cold night.

Oh yes, so close... it hurts our soul. Let it begin.

.

Let him play with us.

.

' _Draco sounded shocked._

" _I guess you've won." He said._

Dar'Ible didn't answer him too busy gathering his memories, shifting though spells and magic routes. Recalling the dark arts of Tari-Waqt, which was his homeland. What he wanted to create now was much more than the resurrection of an old memory. Not an old friend or a sturdy Keep. Much more... he thought, his eyes closed deep in concentration.

He would do it one layer at a time. An echo, a hollow shell perhaps but still him. Dar-Ible set out to create himself.

" _Not yet." He told the weapon-bearer. "But soon... I just need time."_

.

(They woke in the very early hours of the morning, before the sunlight, and they moved against the camp. The shadows kept them hidden as they approached on foot, two quiet and deadly figures, thousands of years since the 'weapon-bearers' rose up against their masters in a forgotten war of a very different realm.)

.

_I seek refuge in the Lord of the dawn_... Azis lifted his eyes and stared at the oil lamp he had placed on a wooden desk inside his large tent. Its light was almost gone. Spent. The Prophet was speaking to him; his words clear in his mind. _What was expected of him?_ He was so close now, Chassan al Kadar Muhanned, the governor of Lisbon, had to appear and make the exchange. _He could not leave his own sister in his hands, not when he had promised—_

The girl made a muffled noise and he turned his eyes on her small feminine frame. _From the evil of what He has created..._ She was beautiful, a rare treasure for any man. If he wasn't on a mission Azis would have kept her for himself, he could do with another wife especially one so exquisite. He run a finger over the scar of his face tracing the ragged line, a reminder of the things he had given to the Caliph. Years and blood. _And from the evil of the utterly dark night when it comes..._ that passage of the Koran had kept on bothering him the whole night.

Am I at the end of my path? Is this a warning?

Azis gathered himself up and reaching for his loyal saif, he unsheathed it and walked outside. The morning was still an hour away, his men asleep in their smaller tents. The large fires of the camp were still burning and the guards of the late-watch were trying to warm themselves, wrapped up in woolen blankets. He let his eyes search the darks surrounding the camp. He hated this god-forsaken land and longed to return to Africa and its warm desert. Azis was away for far too long, but he couldn't return yet; not now when the glory of his name was so near, his prize waiting him in Lisbon, he sighed, he was so damn close.

Azis turned and walked in his tent again, leaving the cold behind him. He went to the table he had laid his chain-armored vest and wore it above his tunic. He wore a warm leather coat on top and poured himself a cup of honeyed wine. He drank it in a large gulp. The girl shifted again behind him and her voice filled the warm tent.

"You are drinking?" He looked in her beautiful black eyes and answered after clearing his throat.

"I live in a foreign land, communing with the infidels..." He told her surprised by her sudden accusatory tone, "But I don't overindulge myself."

"Allah won't hear your prayers—" Saida threw at him lifting her chin in defiance, but Azis cut her off mid-sentence raising his right hand.

"Stay your tongue woman! I won't hear any more of this." He scowled her and she pulled back her eyes full of hatred.

"I will sent word to your brother today, he better value you enough to comply." Her eyes filled with worry at his words, as if she doubted her own brother. _Interesting,_ Azis thought and he continued pleased for this "If he doesn't then I will have my way with you. You will show me how obedient a good Moorish wife can be." He added running his eyes up and down her feminine form.

"Never!" the girl shot at him. "You will not have me, I will kill myself first."

Azis laughed at her face greatly amused by her spirit. _Oh, it would be a real pleasure to break in this one_ , he thought.

"You will do as I ask. Don't mistake yourself, you will please me, or please my men princess, it is your fate. A woman must obey." He told her and lifting the tent door he went outside.

.

The tents, he counted ten of them, anchored with guy-ropes tied on pegs, where built in a semi-circular manner. On the opened space, the Arabs had built a fence to shelter the horses. There were guards posted around the camp, three on the outside and another three near the horses. The latter were gathered around a dying fire trying to warm themselves. Xe had told him to wait near the animals, and so he did, hiding behind thirty big bodies. He heard the men talking, but couldn't understand their not so common in these lands Moorish dialect. He checked the silent tents trying to guess, in which one Azis kept Saida. Philip was nervous; his broken ribs were hurting him every time he made sudden moves and the Asiatic sword Xe had given him, was making him unease. He lifted the weapon and had a look at its strange handle. The white head of the wolf stared at him. _It's so realistic_ , he thought, amazed at the skill of its maker, the quality of his art.

"Where did you come from?" Philip whispered at the strange weapon, not that he was expecting an answer. He had seen Xe many a times, in the years they have traveled together whisper to them, but he didn't possess any of his magic. He was unsure about this illusory side of his friend, more a metaphysic scholar than a warrior, more an evil warlock, as the villagers were gossiping everywhere they stopped, than a normal man. He pulled the sword slowly out of its scabbard, always mindful for any alarming sounds from the guards. Its blade was extremely sharp, made of a dark-gray material hard as metal, but it was no metal he had laid his eyes upon before. Its color was off; and as he touched the polished surface of its blade, he realized it had more the feel of glass than steel. But there was something else that peaked his interest.

What in the seven Hells...

Philip withdrew his hand sharply, like he was pulling it out of a snakes nest. The damn blade was warmer than a mare's belly.

_What sorcery is this?_ He wondered.

A sudden flash of green light came out the sword. Its eerie illumination chased away the darkness around him. The animals became restless and a couple of them neighed unhappily, when the bright light hurt their eyes. Then a voice in his mind spoke, a terrible hissing voice, scaring him beyond reason.

.

Only one will disagree...

.

Philip lost sight of the camp. He was sinking fast in a dark bottomless pit. Windows were opening around him as if accompanying him in his fall. In them he saw unknown faces, people of other times; he saw huge monsters with their skin like animal-pelt, their open mouths filled with hideous teeth. He saw filthy soulless creatures with yellow eyes and burning demons. They were lined up in a wide-open field of strange red soil. A trumpet tooted and the army moved forward, weapons in hand.

.

If the 'Rootless' wields the 'prison sword'...

.

Warriors dressed in glamorous armor paraded in front of him in rapid succession. They all had fought; some of them triumphed, most have fallen. He was running with them, his feet hitting that strange red soil, and then he saw the enemy forces coming. Thousands of soldiers dressed in shining black full-plate armor, all the same height, all with the same built and face. Behind them the castle that kept all the names, shifted and roared, its shape ever changing, its satin strips of cloth making something different each time, constantly mingling together, an ebony sea of silk. A great flash of green light blinded them all; the armies had stopped facing each other, and there in the middle he was standing alone; his heart silent, his blood frozen, and the sword's voice audible only to his ears.

.

Then this kingdom will fall...

.

The cold ground numbed his wet face, the pain in his ribs cut through him, waking him from his stupor. Philip had regained his senses. He was back at the camp, still hidden behind the horses, still waiting for Xe's signal to attempt a hopeless act of bravery. His heart was beating wildly in his chest. _It was a vision, a dream, something that may or may not happen, a sign of fever or of a weak mind,_ he told his scared self in a desperate attempt to explain what he'd just seen, _snap out of it._

DUCK YOU FOOL!

The strange voice startled him, but the crackling sound of broken twigs, returned his attention on the guards standing near the fire. They weren't there. _They had seen the light_ , he thought attempting to stand up to see better above the line of the horses.

_Duck... now!_ came the voice again.

He stooped for the cold ground and a Saracen holding a torch, passed by half a second later missing him. He was standing at the man's feet, so close he could hear him draw breath.

Another one, leave...

He crawled following the horses fence towards the fire. The sword was talking to him; he was losing his mind surely.

No you are not. Stop here, stand up...

Philip had reached the camp fire when he saw a Saracen, holding a war axe in his hand, blocking his path towards the tents. The man had his back to him fortunately so Philip lifted himself up slowly, uncertain if he should charge him or wait for the Asian's long overdue signal.

A commotion on the other side of the camp had startled the guard. He started running towards a larger tent, which lit up suddenly with a burst of flames. Screams came to him from everywhere and Philip wondered what the hell was Xe waiting for.

"Where are you old man?" He asked aloud.

You should help now. Signal was given when you fainted...

Goddess...

Damn my horses.

Philip looked around him, as oil lamps started lighting up on after the other inside the tents. The camp was waking up; their plan was going to hell. The weapon cried in his mind.

Danger behind...

.

Xe allowed the man to come closer and when he went past him turning his back, he stricken at him using his scabbard as a club. He got him behind the right ear and the man dropped like a rock. He grabbed him by a leg immediately with his good hand and dragged him, between two tents. Never looking back he moved swiftly, hiding in the shadows behind the tents. Near the center of the camp, a man wearing a chainmail vest exited from a tent door. Xe recognized him at once; he was Azis and of course that was his tent, slightly larger than the other ones. He moved towards him, releasing his sword from its sheath.

.

Azis heard the noise coming from the back side of the tent and turned to it, yelling at the guards patrolling out of the camp to alarm themselves. A whistle was heard from outside answering his call. The figure of the Asian, still half-hidden in the shadows, was coming towards him. Azis could accept the small man was still breathing. After his men hadn't returned the other day, he'd suspected as much, but seeing him able to mount another attempt against him so soon, intending surely to squash his plans, was bordering the impossible. He waved his saif at him in a challenging manner.

"Infidel demon!" he spat at him and attempted to cut off his head with a sudden blow.

.

Xe ducked to avoid being decapitated and delivered a stroke with the _'sang buillir'_ that slashed off a piece of Azis' mail vest. The man cursed him again and withdrew inside his tent. Xe went after him and entered the large moments later. He'd made but two steps inside when a large oil lamp connected with his shoulder, knocking him back. The lamp broke in pieces, splashing oil on him and on the tent's door. The oil burst with flames almost immediately and he had to remove himself as fast as he could to avoid being roasted like an eastern lamb. The flames leaped and expanded inside the tent, smoke making it almost impossible to see and breathe. Saida screamed from somewhere inside and Xe followed the sound of her voice. He reached a door that led him to a second room inside the tent and went through.

Asiz with his curved sword firmly at hand, grabbed the girl by the neck as soon as he saw him enter and brought her in front of him, effectively shielding himself.

"Stand back you Devil!" He told him angrily.

Xe lowered his weapon and stared at the couple silently. He could have attempted to throw him a knife but his right hand was useless secured in the arm sling. _The Saracen has won himself an advantage_ , he thought dissatisfied with himself. He heard the wall of the tent caught fire on his back and the smoke kept thickening. People were shouting outside, the camp was waking up, _the plan is going poorly_ , he thought conflicted.

Not a good thing.

While the old warrior hesitated pondering his next move someone slashed a wide opening on the tent wall behind Azis using a knife. A Saracen wearing a black tunic came inside; paused and gave a wondering look around him taking in the chaos of the flamed tent and then realizing the situation, pulled out his sword and charged him screaming the name of Allah like a madman.

But Xe now had a target.

The Asian made a small step back and touched the tip of _'sang buillir'_ in the flames menacing behind him. The thin-red-line riding the blade from base to finish glowed brilliantly and then the sword started vibrating in his hand making a buzzing sound. The flames were extinguished. The Saracen halted his advance whispering the word _magic_ in his tongue.

"Fear not his magic you moron!" Azis cried breaking the silence. The soldier blinked once clearing his mind and lifted his sword again to strike him.

Xe caught him in the act; their weapons collided in midair, stayed locked for a nanosecond and then the vibrating blade of _'sang buillir_ ' continued its move first passing through the Saracen's blade like it was made of butter, then cut through the soft flesh above his Adam's apple and severed the bone that connected his spine to his cranium. Blood poured out of the gaping wound and the man fell backwards making an unrecognizable gurgling sound. The old warrior turned to face Azis but the Saracens leader, pulling hard at Saida to keep her in front of him, retreated slowly and reaching the torn opening he left the tent. He followed him, jumping over the dead bloodied body with the sword still shivering in his hand.

.

Philip turned and the tip of a curved sword missed him, that is except for a small cut on his right cheek. The _'Wolf's Cry'_ didn't give him time to even draw breath.

Hit. Upper left side.

He did exactly that using all his strength. His blade connected between arm and elbow, slashing though muscle and hard tendons. The Saracen screamed and let go of his sword. Philip kicked him hard in the chest and the man hit the ground with his back a moment later.

Oh, by the love of Trebaruna.

Philip had hurt something inside him. A sharp pain as if one of his broken ribs had pricked some organ in him, _one could only hope not too useful_. Philip felt the metallic taste of blood in his mouth, but that was from another injury. He blinked twice trying to clear his head and then he started walking, grimacing from pain at every step, towards the bigger tent in the camp. The one that was on fire.

_Duck now and then roll to your right side!_ That bizarre voice advised him.

You've got-to-be-kidding me.

MOVE YOU FOOL!

Philip stooped avoiding an arrow but never managed to roll to the side. He was too slow and even the mere thought pained him. A Saracen, wearing spiked bronze armbands and mail armor, closed in and using a mace stroke him right on his left shoulder popping the bone out of its socket. He moaned as the force of the blow threw him sliding in the muddy terrain several feet away. He struggled to get up, eyeing the other Saracen soldier arming another arrow to his bow. _God-fucking-dammit._ The first one made two quick steps forward and swung at him with his mace again.

Block left...

Philip barely repelled the blow and dropped to one knee to avoid the coming arrow. It missed him by pure luck. _The situation is worsening_ , he thought and anger rose in him. Anger and hot mind-blowing pain. He grabbed hold of his left arm using his right, and pushed as hard as he could. The bone returned to his correct position with a crack and the fresh pain almost made him faint. Darkness clouded his vision and sweat appeared on his forehead despite the freezing temperature.

The man attacked him again, but he had had enough. Philip was beyond reason. He blocked his thrust and slashed at him changing direction at the last minute, instead of up he went down; the Saracen was unable to repel him. He opened a bleeding cut at his abdomen and when the man bent from the pain, he hit him again just under the collar, his blade scoring a gash a hand's deep through the Saracen's mail armor from his neck down to his navel. A butchering blow. The man collapsed immediately still holding his bloodied guts.

_Danger..._ came the warning but it was too late for him to move.

The arrow pierced his back just below the right shoulder shaking him violently. It'd felt more like a punch. The soldier cursed him and went for another arrow. Philip turned and started running towards him, blood wetting the back of his coat, pain shooting through him with every stride. Panic filled the Arab's eyes as he saw him approaching, full of rage, his face a swelled blood-mask, swinging his sword. He let go of the bow and drew a small sword to defend himself.

Philip attacked him with a rally of blows, up and down, right and left quarter. The man couldn't keep up with him, he parried the first two hits, but the next ones connected. The first slashed at his right thigh severing bone and the femoral artery and the second cut off his left hand at the wrist. The Saracen let out a desperate cry of fear and pain and tried to retreat, his blood splashing on Philip, getting in his eyes, but he went after him and pierced him with his blade right through the heart. The man died where he stood. Undaunted Philip pulled the sword out and then willed himself to move towards the burning tent, his eyes hurting from the first sun beams of the arriving morning.

Danger. Front. Right. Left. Back.

Yeah right.

He stopped after a couple of steps. The fire was out. That was the first thing he noticed. The second was that Azis' was coming slowly towards him with his back turned, holding Saida as hostage. And the third... well the third was that the whole camp was fully awake now.

This was going to be a hell of a rescue.

Or a hell of a funeral.

Philip managed a pained grin.

Outstanding.

And then, as if someone was actually hearing him, all hell had broken loose.

.

Azis watched his men with surprised looks on their faces emerging from their tents. Most of them where half-dressed and only a few had their weapons ready. But the situation was improving rapidly and with a smile curving his lips he turned his attention on the small built man in front of him. He noticed his injured right arm, immobilized in the arm-sling and the indifferent expression on his slanted eyes.

"You've reached the end of your road yellow man." He mocked him, his voice steady from newfound confidence. "Whatever the Sheikh is paying you I can match, you only have to stop this madness. Before it is too late for both of you."

The Asian lifted his strange sword in response and touched with its tip the cotton canvas making up the wall of the tent next to him. He whispered one unfamiliar word and the cotton canvas immediately caught fire. The flames leaped with tremendous force engulfing the whole tent in less than a minute and then jumped to the next one. One by one the tents erupted as the fire spread quickly to the entire camp. Men started yelling, surprised and scared, some of them with their clothes already on fire fell on the muddy ground turning right and left like madmen, kicking and screaming in a desperate struggle to extinguish themselves. Others went for buckets of water to attempt to stop the flames from spreading further. Chaos prevailed in the camp. With a terrible neigh a horse with flames burning its pelt, fell on the wooden fence and broken through the rails with its weight. The other animals followed close and started galloping for the nearby mountains. Azis couldn't believe his own eyes, the camp was in uproar, tents were burning all around them, scared horses running free and the bulk of his men disoriented and confused were in no condition to fight.

All this had happened in just a few moments.

"You've reached the end of your road ugly man." The Asian's voice came then his ridiculous accent making his words sound almost comical to his ears.

.

Philip saw the soldier arming his bow and charged him without thinking, his hand numbing and heavying with every step and feeling the arrow still buried in his flesh, sapping the strength out of him. The Saracen released his bow and the arrow traveled with speed towards the Asian that sidestepped in the last moment as if he knew it was coming all along and dodged it. The Asian eyed him trying to access his situation and then turned around, as the guard from before having reached the back of the tent, emerged now holding his war axe ready to cut him to pieces.

Philip dived, traveled briefly on the air and hit the archer on his chest with his good shoulder; The Saracen went down with him, losing his bow and cursing him in his tongue. They rolled around together for a moment each trying to gain an advantage over the other. The archer grabbed at the shaft sticking out of his back and pulled hard. The arrow broke, a part of it still buried in him, the new pain making him yelp in agony. He elbowed the man above the ear with his left arm. The man growled and retaliated nailing the broken shaft of the arrow on the right side of his neck almost killing him on the spot.

His throat immediately filled with blood and he desperately kicked his legs trying to stand up. The archer followed him drawing a dagger with a silver handle and a slightly curved blade from a sheath on his waistband. He tried to stab him but Philip pulled back. The man came at him again, Philip tried to breathe and more blood flooded his throat making him cough it up. The blood splashed out of his mouth and his vision became blurred. His knees buckled and he saw in slow motion, the archer -dagger in hand- making his move. Two feet from him he recognized the giant figure of Nizam, his face so heavily bandaged with thin linen cloth he looked like an Egyptian mummy, nearing him with murdering intentions.

.

Azis saw the young man, his face ashen and bleeding, being cornered exactly at the moment another one of his soldiers managed a mighty blow that threw the Asian on his back.

Yes.

He realized that the princess had fainted and was a dead weight in his hands so he let her fall on the ground. The girl collapsed at his feet lifeless and that worried him a little. But Azis knew that he hadn't choked her that hard and she was strong-willed enough to survive so he gave her no more thought. He turned his attention instead to the young man barely standing just a few feet from him. He nodded to the archer to go help with the Asian and he approached Philip, who was seemingly in a state of shock. _Maybe he is already dead_ , he hoped.

"I should have hunted you down harder." He told him standing five-six feet from him. "Your looks don't mean anything now but back then..." he shook his head regretfully. "You could've had a good life in the harem instead of this." He glared at the stilled body of the girl laying a couple of feet from him now. "Such loyalty, what is it for you risking life and limb for her? How much is the sheikh paying you to forfeit your life?"

The young man's stare was blank; and the sun that came up above them lighted his dirty bloodied face. The left side of his face was swollen but as Azis continued examining him, he thought that he saw the swelling retreat. The man's features seemed to return to normal. He dismissed it; he was just seeing things, the burning camp around him adding to the surreal feel of the moment. He nodded at Nizam and the Nubian cocked an eyebrow quizzingly. The warlord knew what his man wanted.

"Kill him" He ordered him. "Rid us of him."

.

Philip couldn't move.

His strength had run out. His brain was trying desperately to process the scale of the injuries inflicted to his body and block them out, but it was an impossible task. Blood was sipping from him, from his neck were the shaft had tore his flesh and from the wound on the back of his shoulder, where the point of the arrow was still buried inside him. His face was a mess and his left eye had almost completely closed, his broken ribs had shifted from all his earlier overwork and were pricking him, tearing at him from the inside. He heard the Saracens leader words buzzing at his ears and he wanted to respond but he couldn't move his tongue. A bitter thought had entered his mind. He had failed her. It was all over. After so much try and hardship he fell short. _Better dead than a failure_ , he thought. The sword answered his call.

We provide...

.

Azis' just managed to step away as a horse, its eyes maddened from fear, past him by galloping wildly towards the mountains. Something strange happened then. A hurtfully bright light, but not a common light an eerie greenish one, engulfed the whole camp for a moment. He couldn't tell where it had originated; only that it had silenced his men, _less than a handful now_ , he noticed bitterly making a quick head-count, forgetting about the strange phenomenon, anger rising in him. His proud warband, the terror of the lands between Cordoba and Lisbon, had been almost completely obliterated. And who was responsible for that misfortune that had befallen him?

His eyes searched and found Philip staring back at him, his eyes lucid and determined. His face had cleared, the swelling had vanished leaving no trace of it behind and his wounds appeared miraculously healed. Fear crept up inside him, for the first time since he'd encountered the Norman-whore and his slanted-eyed master; Azis considered the possibility that he had bitten more than he could chew.

_No man possesses such magic_ , he thought. A pagan god surely had a hand in this; _I seek refuge in the Lord of the dawn_ , the Prophet whispered in his ear. The green light was gone; the young man lifted his strangely ornamented sword and turned his attention on Nizam, the giant Nubian had stopped momentarily stunned by what he had seen and was returning now to his senses. Azis, with his saif at hand and the cold hand of fear closing around his beating heart went to help him, praying for guidance or the rite of passage to the eternal Jannah.

.

The light went inside the young man. It entered through the tiny pores of his skin; it traveled in his blood, replacing it, filling him with a liquid pulsing strength. The pain retreated and then it was gone completely. Philip felt healed but how was such a thing even possible? He was almost out seconds before. _Is this some kind of forbidden magic? Is it a miracle of the Gods?_ The handle of the sword was burning hot in his hand. He raised the weapon easily and then his eyes cleared and his vision returned. He saw the Nubian moving again towards him.

We protect...

It was the sword. It's responsible for this, he thought astonished, unable to comprehend, what had just happened. How did you do it? He wondered.

_We know the danger._ The sword said but it was not an answer intended for him though.

_Someday you'll have to tell me, what you mean by that_ , Philip thought and ducked avoiding the large saber Nizam held in his hand. He attacked him, switching and timing his hits almost perfectly. His quickness had returned, he felt no pain to his broken ribs and he was too skilled, too agile, for the giant Nubian. He started a continuing flow of blows, randomly aiming at a different quarter every time; he slashed a piece of his left arm off just above the elbow and before the man could open his mouth to scream, he hit him again opening a wound at his right calf. Nizam growled this time and stooped a little, while attempting a strike of his own. Philip blocked him easily and attacked immediately aiming at his sword hand; Nizam used more hand than blade to repel him. The Nubian lost the index and middle finger along with a portion of his palm in the attempt. He tried to hold on to the saber but he was unable to do it, so he switched hands, his lips a thin line from the excruciating pain. Philip admired his resolve, but he still didn't like him at all.

"Give it up." Philip urged him, but the Nubian showed him a row of clenched white teeth. He wasn't going to.

Attack from behind...

He turned bending his knees and swung his sword upwards dodging the backstabbing hit of Azis. The blades clashed and as he pulled it off sparkles shot out, falling right and left. The experienced warrior came at him again with a low starting move that continued up and slashed him with the tip of his blade, tearing the front of his leather coat, right at his chest. He made a side step and checked the movements of Nizam, who with his saber in his left hand now attempted to flank him. He dodged his clumsy, awkward handed strike with a downward move and then lifting his sword in a single move he attacked Azis and taken him by surprise. His blade connected with the Saracen's chain mail vest on his left side, above his ribcage and made a large tear to the hard material. The man pulled back to protect himself.

"I'm running away from you for so damn long, I can barely remember myself doing anything else." Philip told him his voice revealing his hatred. "You've made my life a living hell and today I'm going to pay you back in steel."

And he followed him releasing a rally of blows, forcing him to use all of his skill to repel him. Philip attacked him again and again, the sword speaking in his mind, pointing to the correct combinations of hits. He wounded him in the left arm, but it was superficial. His next blow was blocked but he immediately stroke at him again, a daring open move that left his chest unprotected, aiming for his face. He caught him, satisfaction welling up in him, opening the skin on his right cheek the cut ending just before his eye. The man cried and jumped back, a fat red line marking his face.

"Damn you to Hell!" cursed him Azis and launched a swipe at him aiming for his neck but Philip dodged it with his sword. He had to retreat a couple of steps, as Azis using his other hand that now held a bloodied dagger, he hadn't notice before, attacked him with a rally of swings. The Saracen went on the offensive pushing him back in turn. He was trying to put him between the Nubian and himself.

Philip realized it quickly and as Nizam tried to use that opportunity to come back at him, he turned speedily and high kicked him hard in his bandaged face using his right foot. The giant yelled in pain and missed in his own hit. Philip stroke at him immediately, using his sword in a semi-circular move caught him right at his groin. The blade continued tearing his flesh, ending the cut at his lower belly. His skin opened up and spilled out his insides, a terrible smell reaching his nose as the Nubian gush his guts on the ground. The giant fell on his knees, unable to speak from the shock. Philip made a step forward and swinging his sword decapitated him in a single blow. The head detached itself from the body and flew several feet away, in an explosion of blood. It landed on the frozen ground with a thud, and rolled for a while before coming to a halt leaving a bloody trail behind it.

"You are the Devil's own whore!" Azis cursed on his back and Philip turned to face him with a coy smile on his lips.

"Why don't you just die?" the Saracen added.

"I won't let you have the girl." He told him still grinning, seeing the furious expression on his face. "The girl stays with me, whether you like it or not."

Azis stared in his face strangely; his brows went up as if questioning him and then surprise registered.

"You know you can't have the girl, don't you?" He told him. Philip dismissed his words, lifting his sword to his face.

"Your words are meaningless. I assure you, I'm the only one she trusts. I think she likes me well enough." He told him and Azis laughed at his face.

"You dimwitted fool...' he said, showing him his bloodied dagger. '...trust and politics has nothing to do with gallantry. She will have anyone but you!" Philip charged him with a quick blow, but the man stepped back avoiding him. He tried swinging at him again but Azis repelled him and attempted to hit him with his dagger. He missed and Philip showed him the chaos surrounding them.

"That is the end of you." He told him, a hint of a smile on his face. "Your men run like women and you have to kill me to get to the girl. It's over."

"I'm of a different opinion." He answered him. "I could just wait for you to bleed out. Seems to me that your magic can't fix everything."

Philip looked at the dagger the man held in his hands and then lowering his eyes, he examined his own body. On the left side of his chest, close to his heart, a gaping wound had appeared. The wound was bleeding profoundly; the blood was running down freely, painting the dirty leather material of his coat, a darker shade of red. _That's a very serious injury, you've gotten yourself my friend_ , he thought.

He felt more than actually seen, Azis coming at him.

_Strike straight up... Defend left side._ Was the advice of the sword.

Philip instinctively lifted the sword and slashed without aiming, exactly as he was told, while using his left arm as a shield to block this time the attack from the dagger. The sharp blade of the weapon tore at his flesh and pierced through to the other side of his forearm. Philip jerked wildly his whole body convulsing, as pain hit him like a bucket full of ice. He pulled at his arm violently and felt Azis let go of his dagger. The weapon stayed nailed in his hand and with a low animal-like growl, he pulled it out slowly his fingers clenching desperately from the excruciating pain. His left hand fell at his side useless.

Brilliantly, he thought and then he stared at Azis. The Saracen had his left hand on his lower neck holding it. Blood was pouring between his fingers and down his mail vest. His face had taken an ashen color and his eyes were goggling as if trying to focus on him. Azis opened his mouth to speak, but as his lips moved blood gushed out. He tried to swipe at him with his sword but he was out of his reach and the weapon made a hissing sound as it passed far from his face.

.

Azis felt his life rushing out of his body. The image of the man in front of him became blurry and darker even under the bright morning sun. _From the Evil of what he has created..._ the Prophet whispered in his ear, as he tried for one last time to hit the man that had destroyed his plans before he was gone from his eyes. He missed and his strength left him, his saif too heavy to lift it again. _And from the Evil of the utterly dark night, when it comes..._ He accepted his fate and gave up. The young man filled his vision, he looked much older now but his skin was like marble, his face that of a statue. The image started dissolving slowly until there was nothing left. Then the night claimed him.

.

The soldier saw that Azis had fallen on the ground and froze. He looked at Xe and the Asian shook his head knowingly.

"Wise is not the dead man." He advised him and the man nodded grasping what he meant. The Saracen retreated carefully and calling another two of his comrades they started heading for the mountains, probably after the runway horses. The rest of the camp was empty. The tents had burned out, the horses were long gone, and ten or more corpses lay -some of them half burned as well- on the ground.

The Asian saw Philip approaching the girl and helping her up. She seemed scared but in good health. The young man on the other hand, was in an appalling state. Xe went to them with big strides. _It's the sword_ , he told himself, _he had used the sword's power to win and the wrenched thing had exploited his weakened state by taking control of his body._ Only God knew what brutal hardships the damn weapon had putted the young man through. It was but one of the many reasons; why he never used that particular sword himself. Cursing he reached the two youths, that looked at each other unable to control their feelings. That was a lesser problem in Xe's eyes. The boy had to rest immediately.

"Philip, you have to let me have a look at you." Xe told him grabbing him by his good arm. He turned towards him with a tired smile on his lips.

"I am okay Xe. Saida is fine also; I can't believe we've actually won." The girl gave out a pleased chuckle her eyes tearing with joy. "We are going to Lisbon." He supplemented.

"You have to sit down first." He said to him watching his skin giving out a low glow from the inside, almost invisible to an untrained eye. _It's still in him_ , he thought. _Damn you, treacherous foul thing! Be gone!_ He cursed the weapon almost regretting giving it to the young man.

Philip sighed and reached one of the burned out camp fires and sat down near the still warm logs, the girl following him and sitting beside him.

"Let's just stay here for a moment." He said to her and then the sword glowed, its light turning the world around them an alien shade of green for just a second. The girl giggled happily, but Xe had a concerned look on his face. He had heard the sword's hissing voice.

Here goes, he thought worried.

No danger...

Philip closed his eyes.

.

The pain returned to him like a river of lava. It filled his veins with burning acid and ate his flesh from the inside. He started convulsing with high fever almost immediately, his exhausted body unable to cope with the damage it had suffered.

.

" _You can't do this." the Weapon-Bearer said a determined look on his face._

" _It is already done."_

" _You will not be the same. You shall gain nothing out of this." the man insisted. 'you know of the danger are you willing to risk that?"_

" _A part of me will be free.' He answered stubbornly. 'the rest will follow.' his eyes returned to the dying man. 'and eventually my memories will return." He added ending their conversation._

.

CHAPTER TWO

.

.

The 'First' are to blame for everything.

It is they who had hidden the truth so well...

they who had set her aside and now the truth is lost, is forgotten.

Whatever is forgotten, no longer exists.

Marius the Historian

The Prophecies 2:1-4

.

.

### Part V

### .

(The Black Knight)

.

Saida eyed him startled, utterly horrified. She clenched her small fists, body rigid and a frown marring her pretty face. "You cannot possibly leave him here!" she lashed at the old man her pleasant voice unusually loud and determined.

Xe lowered his gaze to the ground with a sigh. They had returned to the cave carrying an unresponsive Philip with them. The young man was laid in the back of the cave protected from the cold, but his condition had worsened. Snow was coming from the North and soon it would be impossible for them to leave for Lisbon. They couldn't take him along; he would not survive the journey. That left them with one option and a distasteful one at that. They had to leave the young man behind.

"He will die with no one to care for him..." the girl muttered still shocked by his decision. It pained him more than he could ever explain to her but the mission was still to get her to safety. If he didn't deliver the girl safe then the young man had fought for nothing. _No_ , he decided shaking his head, _staying out here in the wilderness, was not an option for them._

Which of course meant...

"Better to give him a chance here. He'd be dead before a day is over, if we drag him with us tied up on a saddle." He told her. Tears rolled down Saida's eyes as she started sobbing. Turning her head away, she started walking with small delicate steps towards the back of the cave. Xe let her go and stared at his mule, laden already with his swords and provisions for three days. The 'Emperor' neighed angrily showing his discomfort for the load, no surprise there, except perhaps that the animal was still alive after all this time.

"We have to leave the other horse here in case he makes it." He explained looking in the animal's face. The 'Emperor' shook its big head declaring his whole suggestion a stupid idea. _So everyone has a problem_ , Xe thought. _Well this isn't a_ _fucking democracy_. This was not a vacation gone badly; they still had a purpose to fulfill. "Suck it up," he told the mule. "We are leaving in an hour."

.

DAMN YOU!

Dar'Ible bellowed his fist landing on the sturdy wall of his Keep. The stone cracked and splints covered him but the only thing he could feel was his rage setting his blood on fire, rushing to his head ready to explode. The old man had done the unexpected! He'd left the boy behind, taken the sword away from him. The demon growled like a wounded animal and the walls of his Keep crumpled around him. The old bastard was trying to ruin his plans. His voice came again, a hissing nightmarish monstrosity that matched his appearance.

Damn you to hell!

...

.

There was a light hidden behind the fog. He'd seen it a couple of times, when he turned his head really quickly on the side. It didn't stay for long. As if knowing he was looking it came and went, not letting him have a clear look at it. _Maybe I should stop,_ he thought. He was walking down that country road for hours. The fog, thick and un-penetrating, was surrounding him. It was so thick he could almost feel it, every time he closed his fists around it.

He could hardly breathe or hear in that damn thing, it barred his senses. He had to stop walking. He gave the order but his legs refused to listen to him. The light appeared again on his right side, a hundred meters from him. He turned to go after it, managed several strides and then he fell in water. He sunk in to the hip but he kept moving, following the light that had stayed still this time. The stationary waters rose to his chest, _it's a lake not a river_ he guessed as he kept on going, his mind set on finding out what that light was. After a while only his head was outside the waters, but he didn't stop, he started swimming instead every second drawing him closer.

Philip.

He stopped and lifted his head out of the cool water. Moving feet and hands he stayed afloat trying to determine the origin of the voice. The fog had covered everything around him, making it impossible to see more than three feet.

Philip.

There, the voice again. He was not mistaken, someone was calling at him, but he couldn't see a thing. He realized he had lost sight of the light. _When did it happen?_ He couldn't remember.

Philip, wake up...

That was strange, he wasn't sleeping. He felt a terrible pain in his left hand, like he had the spasms; he couldn't move it at all and that made him double his efforts to stay afloat. Then another pain, more severe, pierced his chest and it became difficult to see from his left side. Water entered his mouth as he started sinking. His last coherent thought was that he had a heart attack and then he blacked out.

.

.

The barbican, the outer fortification of the Lisbon castle, could be seen from a great distance. The citadel itself in all its white splendor proudly standing on the highest hill of the land, greeted them from afar. Moorish green flags were lifted high on two big towers. As they approached Xe couldn't help but notice, how well fortified the castle itself was. A moat filled with water was surrounding its great entrance, leaving as the only way in a large stone bridge. Its outer fortifications, a low stone wall, was protecting the southern and eastern sides, while the northern and western sides, which Xe couldn't see as they were approaching, were naturally protected by the steep hillside sloping downward from the castle's foundations.

A Moorish captain nodded them to stop their animals lifting his left hand. Two soldiers wearing the silver colors of the governor of Lisbon on their necks flanged them immediately. The Asian lowered his head a little and in a quiet voice told the captain who they were. The man gazed at Saida and then he bowed his head low in a sign of respect. _This is it then_ , Xe thought, they have reached the end of this journey. Trumpets were heard less than fifteen minutes later and soon the whole city rejoiced in the news that the girl had been found.

.

They were walking the gardens of the castle. The many peacocks that used to run free filling with colors the descending stone walkway, which led to the courtyard, were housed inside for the winter. Except for the occasional Moorish guard they were alone among the even-lined trees surrounding them.

"I was informed that you were coming." Chassan al Kadar Muhanned said, using his right hand to touch his shoulder in a friendly manner. "I never expected you will bring such a gift with you."

"It was a feature paid for heavily, governor." Xe told him.

"You speak of the young man I suppose." Chassan said and gathered his winter tunic around him to protect himself from the cold.

"I wasn't coming to Lisbon to save your sister. I first heard about your plans in Constantinople, but dismissed the possibility of being able to assist in any way. I gave my promise to help of course should the opportunity arise; when I finally reached this land I counted the dates, I heard about the raids and I knew you were going to need my help." He stopped as they were passing a palace official, who bowed and disappeared in seconds. "The kid is a weapon-bearer there is no doubt left in me after I've seen him in action, a damn fine one considering his origins, and the main purpose of my journey but alas it is unlikely, I will find him alive whenever I'm aloud to travel again. He saved her,' he added looking at the governor's face intently. 'at great personal sacrifice, a not so small feature in view of the opposition, if you want my opinion."

Chassan frowned, his lips a thin line on his royal face.

"I am the sixth son of the great Caliph, I know the stories your _Excellency_." Xe made a disapproving face at the mention of his title. "I also know that a true weapon-bearer is capable of grand things and is exceptionally difficult to dispose of." He gave him a small smile but Xe remained indifferent to his words. "My Princess Sister, is a valuable commodity in my hands during our troubled times. I have already told you of my plan, it will secure my Frankish borders and then I would be capable to deal with the general's dogs better."

Xe showed his discomfort more heavily, a few harse words in his own tongue, escaping him. He stopped and sat on a stone bench, one of the many built along the walkway. The governor looked at the cold surface and preferred to remain standing.

"That young man killed Azis al Qatil." Xe told him in a steady voice. "He traveled with me in hard conditions from a small age, working and fighting; it was a struggle for him. He had something in his eyes...' He sighed, he wasn't going to give up on the young man, not yet. '...you were unable to deal with Azis, because you are afraid to leave the citadel. The general knows this and as long as the Caliph of Cordoba remains closed in his harems, his face buried in boys asses, his generals will run this kingdom. No alliance with the Christians will ever help you Chassan. You have to help yourself or find real men to solve your problems and that young man could have done just that."

"I can send for him when the snows clear." The governor said, looking at the clouded sky unenthusiastically.

"I don't think he has that much time."

Xe left the stone bench after lifting himself slowly, his right arm still in the arm-sling and started walking towards the buildings surrounding the courtyard. Chassan followed him wrapped in his warm robes.

"Maybe we will get lucky." The Governor told him when he caught up with him.

Xe smiled bitterly at that.

"It is not _we_ that need luck." He replied.

.

"Well, is he dead?" Rousse asked the beautiful young woman kneeling next to Philip. She had striking red hair and a fine delicate face but the most interesting thing on her was her eyes. Their hazel color changed from green to a light gold as she stared at the unmoving young man laying in front of them.

"His will is very strong." She told him putting her hands on his bloodied chest. "Spirits have touched him heavily. It is... very strange."

"What do you mean by that? Is he going to survive or not?"

She nodded him to silence.

"Maybe it is better for him not to. A measured choice must be made Rousse, before every action."

He closed his fingers around her smaller hand. Her cheeks turned red and she felt her trembling desire soaring and ready to explode.

"Do this for me and you will have my eternal devotion" He told her in a low passionate voice. He was not faking it; he wanted her more with every day that passed. At first it was just wonder at her change from an old woman to this beautiful creature, then fierce gratitude because her magic had healed him and desire for her secrets of life without aging; without death. But he knew it in his heart that he was starting to love her too, for her spirit, her own childish love of nature and her sexual voice singing to him in ancient tongues the tales about her mother and sister, Lilith and Ishtar. "I will stay with you till time runs out." He almost meant it.

She gave him a shy smile.

"You want the potion of life Rousse. You want it so bad it poisons your soul; I can feel your need. You will stay with me until _my time_ runs out that is what you mean in your heart."

"You know my heart's will beautiful Aset. I cannot lie to you, but I do want you to help him; he saved my skin this lad. He is a pain in the ass, I won't hide you that, but also the bravest son-of-a-bitch I've ever met."

She closed his lips with the tip of her index finger.

"Stay with him then. Thank him for that and help him move on. When his time comes you can return to me. I will wait my dear rogue, for I love you."

Rousse surprised looked at Philip's face and then back to her.

"What do you mean, when his time comes?" Aset laughed at his words though it never reached her eyes, the sound echoing in the cave's walls. "Aren't you going to treat him or something?"

"I already have. He will be awake in five days. When he is ready, you will leave with him for Lisbon. Although...' She paused looking at his worrying eyes. '...it doesn't matter, I will see you soon love."

Rousse deeply rejoiced had taken her in his arms and kissed her passionately tasting her ruby lips. The need arose in him and his eyes searched the cave around them, lust written all over his face.

"I love you too, tasty old witch." He told her, his voice ragged with passion. She grinned and giving him a peck on the nose, withdrew from his arms.

"No you don't...' she answered him in a teasing manner. '...but you will."

.

There were pieces of broken glass on the floor.

He stepped on them and felt them crashing under the soles of his boots.

But his attention was drawn to the woman with the white over-the-elbow satin gloves. The woman was wearing a rich-red colored evening gown, with a very low cut, that showed off her elegant shoulders and barely managed to cover her lavish breasts. Her long straight dark hair was cascading down her back, her lips were painted a scandalous deep-red, and her sapphire eyes were accentuated with black pencil. An elegant silver chain that was holding some kind of pendant, hidden between her breasts, graced her neck. She was speaking to him; but her words were in an unfamiliar dialect. He was in a strange, badly lit room, wearing even stranger clothes, getting an earful from an unknown woman, in a language that he could and couldn't exactly place in a very disturbing way.

These were not his memories.

" _Vous n'êtes pas de mon people_

vous n'êtes pas l'un de nous

Nous ne voulons pas vous ici

Je veux que vous allé

Vous êtes sans racines, non désirés,

vous n'êtes pas de mon people."

She was talking to him, her face showing her anger and his pulse quickened, watching her lips moving, oh she was beautiful. What could she want from him? Her face faded, only her words remained, words that he could understand now.

You are not of my people.

You are not one of us.

This world retreated; his memories backtracked to an earlier point, he left the room behind. Her voice followed him as he was waking up.

I want you gone.

You are rootless. Unwanted,

It pressed on, tormenting him; as if trying to force him remembering of something he wasn't suppose to forget. Something that was important.

.

You are not of my people...

.

Coughing Philip opened his eyes. Bile rose in his throat and a sudden nausea made his stomach turn violently. He threw the heavy blankets off him and standing up he puked out his guts a few feet from his cot. Whatever was in his stomach, _it ain't food_ , he thought, noticing the mess he had created on the ground.

"The medicine helped, I see. Super."

That was, on the other hand, a familiar voice. Philip eyed him through half-closed eyelashes.

"I thought you were dead." He told him and Rousse shuffling his unruly hair with a hand gave him a wide grin.

"Seriously, I almost died." He reached him and pressed a hand on his forehead checking his temperature. "But you topped that my friend. The first time I saw you laying in the cave, you looked like a goner." He let him drink with large greedy gulps water from a cup and when he finished he refilled it from a bucket he'd carried in the cave.

"Where are the others?" he asked him between gulps.

"You were the only one here when I arrived. I think they left you behind Philip. The weather was terrible a week ago. Too hard to travel with an injured man."

Philip felt that foul taste returning in his mouth and cursing he washed it down with more water. His stomach turned, the spasm making his face grimace with discomfort.

"What in the name..." He couldn't finish his words as Rousse stepped closer and offered him a small leather flask. He drank from it, strong ale it was, it burned his throat, but he swallowed stubbornly and he felt better. "What have you given me to drink?" he asked giving him back his flask.

"It is strong wine. Good for—"

He cut him off.

"I meant before. It tasted worst than anything I've ever tasted and I've putted some really foul shit in my mouth before." He told him, looking around the cave for the first time since he had woken up.

"You really don't want to know." Rousse was grinning. Bastard, Philip thought, but he was happy the young man was alive. I guess I'm getting used to his roguish arse, he thought with another smile.

"One horse." He noticed.

"Yep, Xe has taken everything else with him. I've never trusted that slanted-eye bastard."

Philip gave him a scowl.

"Don't be foolish. It was a sound choice. Our priority was the girl; I would have done the same in his shoes. She is more important than any one of us. "

Rousse shook his head disapprovingly.

"Forget the girl Philip. You've done your part, time to move on."

Philip grabbed the flask from him and drank a large gulp. He coughed and his eyes watered but he smiled at him showing almost two whole rows of clear teeth. His green eyes had a sparkle they missed till now.

"That is what we are going to do." He told him. "We are going to move on... to Lisbon. If Xe brought the girl to the governor then my friend, I think we are going to be heavily rewarded."

Rousse held his gaze on him. If only he could tell him, he was thinking, of what he had found. He blinked twice and opened his mouth.

"I pray you are not disappointed" He told him instead cowering and Philip laughed at his words.

"Pray? You don't believe in anything you rogue!"

"And I'm afraid you are yearning for something way out of your reach."

Philip dismissed his argument with a wave of his hand and turned his back to check the weather outside of the cave. But the healer's words caught up with him, penetrated his thoughts and an uneasy feeling crept up inside him.

Something was not right.

.

(January 969 AD, Hills of Dartmoor, England)

.

The wind was blowing with such fierceness, as if trying to rip the bedrock or move the huge boulders of granite topping the hills. Soil and small rocks had blended with snow creating drops below it, making the terrain treacherous and a giant white-grey trap.

The horses, they were mostly coursers, were moving slowly each step a guessing, a misfortune waiting to happen. The men, around a dozen, were wrapped up in heavy blankets. They had hoods on their heads and clothes that shielded their faces, letting only their eyes uncovered.

The small company followed the downward path of a river, a wise guide as the weather didn't really permit any kind of orientation. The river made a bent after a while and they reached an opening dwarfed by something that looked like a large wooden cabin. A small stable, on the rather large cabin's side, held only one animal. It was a giant black destrier, a warhorse of the finest quality.

The men tied their own horses in the stable in turn and then one of them walked towards the huge door of the cabin, he opened it and went inside. A large fire was burning in the fireplace and the room was warm and well lit by two big oil lamps.

A hulking man, wearing a polished scaled hauberk black as the night, was standing in front of the fire. He had his back turned to the door and the man hesitated before speaking to him. An eerie silence fell inside the cabin.

The man wearing the black armor lifted a chalice ornamented with fine jewels that shined when they caught the light from the fireplace and drank silently its contents. He threw the chalice in the fireplace when he finished and the man behind him cleared his throat.

"My lord, the men are ready." He told him his voice subdued somewhat, but it was mainly from fear and not respect.

The large man didn't answer him. Unmoving he was staring at the fire, its flames illuminating him, growing with each passing second as if trying to reach him. The smell of sulfur filled the air and the man standing by the open door made a step backwards, his eyes welled with fear. The flames leaped at that time outside and a surge of great heat engulfed the wooden cabin. The building shook from its foundations, making a crackling sound and the door opened from the wind almost hitting the man on the back.

The wind was burning hot and it carried the Knight's voice.

They hath called upon me...

The wind soared outside and the flames started climbing from the walls to the wooden ceiling of the cabin. The building trembled and large cracks appeared on the floor. The man lost his courage and panicked he tried to run outside. The heat caught up with him as he was leaving the door and his face immediately blackened.

I was walking alone for ages...

His clothes burned up as if they were made of paper and flames came out of his mouth, his skin melted and dissolved and he fell on the dry ground outside the now burning cabin.

I heard their vain pleas and came forth...

The animals neighed blinded by fear, as one by one the men waiting outside became human torches. The fire burned them alive and their screams echoed in the wilderness, desperate agonizing cries that soon ceased. Only the wind remained, hot... an alien desert wind, which carried the Knight's words.

To bring fire to a world of rot.

The wind stopped as suddenly as it had begun. The cabin was a pile of burning rumple and large piles of ashes lay were the soldiers had died. A strange quietness fell in the opening.

Then the ashes of the first dead soldier stirred and somewhere very far in a place time didn't exist, the statue of a giant standing next to a stone throne came to life. A figure wearing a long red robe, its face hidden behind a hood, spoke to him in a firm voice.

"Go now Nefer, for I'm already waiting for you."

.

(Late April 970 AD, Lisbon Citadel)

.

The young man was not that tall standing close to 5.10 feet, or physically imposing enough, although his body was well toned and he moved with the grace of a warrior, but the people were looking at him with respect. He wore a silver-crimson sash, the colors worn by soldiers serving under the Governor of Lisbon, and he had a golden pendant with a black rose engraved on it wounding itself on a cross, hanging low from his neck.

The man walked with confidence through the many people surrounding him, the lot of them turning their heads to watch him when his mail shirt, made of alternating riveted and solid rings of wrought iron that were making a distinct sound, announced his passage to them. 'Rabb al Aswad warda', was what most of the people were calling him or 'Al Salib'. The first meant the Lord-of-the-Black-Rose, a provoking name as the name Rabb primarily meant master or God in their tongue, both terms unsuitable to be used on an infidel and the second 'The Cross', again strangely so, as he was not a Christian. He was from the Frankish lands though, maybe that was enough.

The blond man, his long straight hair tied in a ponytail with a leather hair-band at the base of his neck, was heading for the great hall of the castle following the stone walkway that led to it, passing through the peacock gardens. He occasionally smiled and hailed some of the officials of the palace, but his forest green eyes held no warmth for them. He preferred the company of common soldiers than this treacherous breed of people surrounding the governor. Advisors, magicians, ministers and religious figures, always plotting, always lying, _fucking scheming jesters_ , he thought grimacing and then cursed the lot of them. Ruffians, he thought, that smiled at you all sugar and devotion and when you turned your head, they stabbed you in the back.

An old captain of the guards saw him approaching and came to him with long strides, a broad smile on his tanned face.

"Lord Philip La-Croix" he greeted him, the words coming strangely, using the nickname Rousse had found for some reason, more elegant. "Captain Alim Fati." He saluted him back, a small grin coming on his own lips.

"Can I just choose the one that I prefer, Alim? They are coming from everywhere these days. What is it with you people and names anyway?" he asked him and the Arab laughed soundly, causing one of the guards standing by the entrance of the great hall to toss a stern look their way.

"Names are important to us, they tell of who you are." He managed to say still laughing. Philip rolled his eyes and then looked across the stone walkway, to an area where a big linen screen was hiding the part containing the water garden.

"Are we having visitors?" he asked him and the man's mood darkened, his eyes trying to focus anywhere but on his face. A bad feeling came upon Philip; he knew even before the man opened his mouth, who the visitor was. Hearing the name aloud only hammered home the nail for him.

Lord Antonio Gonzalez, cousin of the independent Count Fernan Gonzalez, of the vassal state of Castile and as of last year, Saida's husband.

Philip felt his lungs contracting and then expanding in a desperate attempt to draw breath. His lips gathered in a thin line and he fought to control his temper. His mind raced back a dozen or so months. He was standing in the great hall, the governor sitting on his throne with his sister at his feet, covered from head to toe in her silk robes, in a scene he had seen in his dreams so many times he had foolishly believed that he had correctly grasped its meaning _._

' _I want you to understand the level of my gratitude; young man...'_ The Governor had told him, _'you've performed a tremendous act of bravery and for that I am in your debt. Your actions had raised you from your unfortunate position and my mercy will help you overcome your shameful birth. You will be a respected man in my court from now on. '_

The man was serious in his promise. He had received a rank with a place among his lordship's soldiers, a title making him an equal amongst the Arabs and a strip of land near the great sea. He was given a hefty sum of a thousand gold dinars per year, which alone made him a rich man overnight and the right to choose a Moorish wife or many, if that was his liking. Jumping at the opportunity, he had thanked him and then asked for the hand of his sister in marriage. Dead silence fell over the Courtroom, but he heard the girl draw a sharp intake of breath. Her eyes had turned upon him, open oh-so-wide they looked like small circles on her veiled face. But in them he had seen, neither love nor warmness as he'd expected, only shocked fear.

And that had changed everything.

The governor of Lisbon for whatever reason had taken a different approach. First he had laughed loudly, making the Court officials turn their attention on him and then in a more serious tone he had explained to him the reason Saida had come to Lisbon. She was to be betrothed to a Christian lord, to gain the favor of the neighboring kingdoms. He had chosen for her Antonio Gonzalez, mainly for his connection to the ambitious Count of Castile. He hoped that he would keep the pressure on the Kingdom of Leon and away from his borders. Let them fight amongst themselves, he had explained him, but by then Philip had already stopped listening. It was as if someone had pulled a rag from under his feet.

He had lost his ability to speak for a while; his blood boiling in his veins, his face burning hot as if he had just been slapped. _She will have anyone but you!_ The words, of the long-dead now Azis, had pierced the membranes of his brain like daggers and the pain reached his very soul. He felt betrayed, wronged, but the voice of reason in his head whispered him, to stay his anger. He had hoped for too much. He had what he wanted, land and a noble title, he was someone now. So with his face a frozen mask, hiding his feelings, he bowed to his superior and walked out of the Hall, before his rage got the better of him and slain him at the spot.

The captain of the guards was looking at his face worried. He gave him a reassuring smile. The man nodded him to go along his way. He knew of course, Philip thought, the whole palace had understood that he had feelings for the girl. The majority of the people wanted the man that had saved the Black Rose, to claim her for his own as was the custom, but it was not to be. The girl was already promised he could not erase that, not with his penny status. Oh he was an Arab lord now, but not from birth, it was a reward given to him from the governor for his deeds, one that could be easily taken away from him. He did the logical thing; he buried his feelings deep inside him and tried to enjoy the new to him life in the big city. His handsome looks gained him soon a reputation in the taverns of Lisbon and with the help of the _ever-knowing in these kind of things_ Rousse, he had indulged himself as much as he could. But Saida was always there in his mind, in the early hours of the morning, sometimes half-asleep, others half-awake, whenever he closed his eyes. Her soft voice calling him by his name, to come to her, to claim her. But he never did.

More than a year went away and he buried himself in other things. He rode with the Asian and the men the governor had given him to command, patrolling the lands, hunting down thieves and whatever other criminals there were, with such a fanatical zeal, that he quickly raised in the ranks again, now a first captain in the governor's guards, honored by the aged Caliph of Cordoba himself, in one of his rare visits. The Caliph had the golden pendant made for him, a rare gift and Philip had accepted it, even coming from the man, whom 'Al Qatil' had almost sold him as his concubine several years back. But there were days he felt exactly like that though. That eventually despite all his efforts, he had sold himself.

He walked past the gates and into the great Hall. The throne room was mostly empty and he waved at the chief librarian, an older man that had helped him learn writing and reading, with great patience at many a times, which he respected. The man smiled at him and nodded with his eyes to wait for a word. He sat on a wooden bench and took a deep breath to clear his head. But his thoughts had returned. He wondered where Saida was staying; if she was happy with her husband or if she was with child, a thought that he dismissed because it bothered him immensely. Maybe it was his fault all along, the dreams haunting him for so long, had poisoned his mind. No princess was waiting for him, these images in his head were nothing but ghosts, they did not exist, he should just let her go and find his happiness in more sane things, before his stupid imagination destroyed him completely.

"You seemed bothered, young lord." The chief librarian Abdul-Bari told him. He was standing next to him on the bench, his lined face showing his age. He was one and sixty, the oldest of the palace officials.

"My mind is undecided Ustadh." He answered him using the word that meant teacher, as a sign of respect. "I fear I know not how to proceed in a number of tasks."

"I may not be able to help you with _other_ tasks Al Salib, but in the manners of the injured heart, there is only one medicine I know of."

Philip tried to hide his annoyance.

"What is it then, this _medicine_?"

The old man gathered his long robes around him and looked towards the throne where Lord Gonzalez, followed a few steps behind him by the small figure of Saida, had appeared. Philip felt the strength departing his legs along with his courage.

"Journey afar and find something else to love." He told him his voice clear despite his years.

.

The governor was adamant in his opinion. They were standing in front of his throne. Lord Gonzalez on his part was understandably furious; Philip still trying to hide his shock, with the Asian wearing his usual skeptical mask. Captain Alim Fati was quiet, along with the two senior advisors and a visiting English Monk. Saida was standing even further back, her eyes on the floor listening to them.

"She is my wife Governor!" Lord Gonzalez exploded at last his face red from anger. "I am not going to leave her here." Chassan stopped his outbreak raising his hand in a threatening manner.

"And I am not going to leave my sister become a hostage in some infidel's hands. That would cost me dearly in the future, besides it is better for you to stay here also. The Duke of Leon is not going to forgive you and surely you must know that means they will not spare your life."

"I _must_ help my cousin sir. Castile _is still_ my country."

The governor gave him a measuring look.

"That is correct. It is your country. You should return then. Do what you must, but my sister remains here in Lisbon so _I_ can protect her. That is my final decision on the matter."

Lord Gonzalez had a murderous look in his eyes. Philip didn't bother with him, he had his own eyes set on Saida but the woman kept avoiding his stare. Her lower lip was trembling showing her discomfort for the whole situation and his heart ached for her. To see your fate being dictated by someone else was far worse than death in his eyes. _A woman must obey,_ he remembered her words grasping for the first time their true meaning.

One of the advisors came forward and cleared his throat before speaking, addressing the Governor, who had his eyes on the still angry Lord Gonzalez.

"There is the matter of the request made by Earl Eadwig of Exeter, my Lord." He said in a typical clerical voice.

"I will of course assist our English friends." Chassan told him and the monk standing on the opposite side of his throne bowed lightly showing his respect, a pleased smile on his face at his decision.

"And who will lead this expedition my Lord? Not many men would want to travel so far in Christian lands." the senior advisor to the Governor pressed on.

Chassan narrowed his eyes and seemed to think about this for a while. Then his face cleared and a look of indifference covered his eyes.

"We will have to reward the said men royally then." He said his voice calm, a man sure of his position and place. "Write an official order. Whomever takes on this responsibility and leads this effort will be made a Mawla and thus be considered welcomed in the Caliph's own court. Regardless of his current status or birth, he is forever to be honored in this land."

_Pay attention_ , the sword's menacing voice whispered in his ear. _This could be an opportunity thou shouldn't miss._

Philip turned towards the Asian to witness his reaction to the Governor's words. But Xe remained skeptical, his silence holding an ominous tone he couldn't quite place. He wanted to ask him if that was a good enough reason for them to go traveling in search of a new adventure but the eyes of the Princess now locked on his face, stayed his tongue. There was passion in her stare and a hint of a silent taunting. _I could do that_ , he told her with his own eyes holding her gaze until with a blush she lowered her head, her chin almost touching her neck.

He was so preoccupied in their silent exchange; he didn't see the governor watching them, his face a venomous mask.

.

(Later that night.)

.

The tabour players had picked up their pace. The place was filled with smoke from the many hookahs that after a while made you see things in a different light or taste. Tastes like mint or lemon from the strange syrupy tobacco mixture, the mu'assel as the Arabs were calling it, could corrupt the will of the strongest man.

He watched the fit naked belly of the girl following the rhythm of the tabour, her almost uncovered shapely hips never missing a beat. She wore a skirt that was made of a material so thin he could see her strong legs dancing to a carnal tempo, as she was coming closer. Rousse's head zeroed in on him and he but yelled in his ear to cover the buzz of the music.

"She dances for you my friend." He paused when the girl opening her arms made a pirouette and then smiled on their direction her small white teeth a beautiful contrast on her dark face. "I told you, she goes crazy whenever you're are in here."

Philip examined the feminine figure of the girl in front of him. She had come closer now; he could feel the heat of her body reaching him in waves. Her skin was moistened, dark and flawless and shining as much her costume jewelry. He could smell her arousal that sweet feminine scent he had learn to love and taste with abandon the previous year. His body reacted to her, pumping blood straight down his stomach. The girl saw his pupils dilating and a sexy grin appeared on her lips. She dared him to take her, _now_ , he told him with her eyes; he could feel his own pulse beating on his neck harder than the percussions, his control quickly slipping away.

"I've decided to leave." He told matter-of-factly to Rousse who stopped drinking from a large cup and looked at him, wonder clear in his face.

Philip didn't explain further, he realized his right hand had encircled the small waist of the dancer and the girl had stopped moving, waiting to decipher his intentions. He took her in his arms; she was smallish, her body fitting nicely on him. Philip could feel her breathing heavily from the exertion; her breasts were touching him, their hard tips like nails on his linen shirt. He lowered his head and kissed softly the small cavity on her neck. He felt her pulse quicken and reaching her hands she caressed his back. A small sigh escaped her lips.

Rousse saw Philip untie the girl's waistband and her skirt fell on the floor of the inn, giving him a clear view of her buttocks. She didn't have an ounce of fat on her, he thought, but he couldn't get his mind to let go of his friend's words. He had heard him despite the heavy noise and the music around them. The place was packed with people, as always when the time came for the dancers to appear. Muslims, Christians and some pagans made for a colored crowd.

"You know you don't have to take that assignment" he yelled at him in order to be heard above the music and Philip lifted his head from the girl's torso when he heard his voice. The tip of his tongue was wetting a very-hard nipple and the girl let go a sound of disappointment when he stopped to answer him. His face was devoid of any emotion, a mask made of skin. Rousse thought he looked much older than his years.

"I have to find a way." He told him and when he saw that he didn't understand he added. "There is nothing here for me to do; I don't want to lay back and age with grace. Besides every time I try to sleep, my mind tries to kill me in the most bizarre ways. I reckon its best to find something in order to keep my eyes open."

"I don't like this business at all. I fear—" Rousse said but he cut him off before he could finish.

"I told you, I can't just lay back and do nothing. That is the only thing, which I _fear_." He told him and Rouse shook his head at his stubbornness.

The girl moaned softly in his ear and Philip turned his attention back to her, with a trembling need she exploded in his hands and engulfed him in a sea of soft skin and limbs.

The tabours kept on drumming until the first lights of the morning.

.

The soft lips of the naked dancer engulfed his throbbing manhood and he groaned spilling his seed in the warm confines of her mouth. Philip closed his eyes feeling her sweated body moving beside him. Cool fingers touched his left nipple teasing, pulling and the other girl, a friend she had told him as they were leaving and he didn't object, he had the coin for both them, whispered in his ear that she was ready for another round. Philip didn't have the strength to open his eyes. He didn't even remember her face or her name for that matter and he felt her riding him, her wet sex moistening his belly before settling on his cock. The damn thing stirred again and with a sigh the girl welcomed him inside her. She worked him so hard, her nails tearing at his shoulder skin, her thighs almost crushing him that in the end, he almost cried out more in pain than in pleasure.

He watched them leaving a little after the first light, after he gave them a purse heavy with dinars, two long-legged amazons, one with skin as black as the night, the other a lighter tone of caramel. Their bodies were fit and curved in all the right places; they could easily lure the Devil in a church, but in an odd way he was relieved to see them leave.

.

' _Master-Maker Tigrein's voice rattled the walls of his cell. Binding and unforgiving. Thou shall leave this realm devoid of chains. A blank sheet. An emptied shell or you'll not leave at all. You'll not look outside. Thou shall not want what you can't have. You'll become a servant to the wielder of the sword and thou shall not love anything else._

The memory pained him worst than a sharpened blade, a muffled groan escaped the sleeping demon's lips, his voice turning desperate, pleading... the memory moving forward to a later time, stopping sadistically just before the executioner's sword started falling. The blade separated the woman's head from the rest of her frail body and this time the Demon bellowed in devastating pain.'

.

.

(May 970 AD, port of Lisbon.)

.

The large shalandi warship was slowly been loaded with provisions for the journey. It would take at least three days for everything to get on board, the last been the hundred soldiers the governor was giving him for his mission. Fifty Moorish footmen armed with axes, shields and thick leather armor. Twenty elite archers wearing their desert robes with hoods covering their heads to give him an edge over the barbarians. Twenty riders with long spears plus another ten armed with swords, round wooden shields and protected by heavy chain mail armor, to serve as his personal bodyguards. A lot of men to satisfy a Christian, that Philip didn't believe would lift a finger to help them when the time came.

_A Briton monk sent by the Earl of Exeter to seek help from the governor of Lisbon had arrived at the end of the previous month. The Earl was a member of the_ _'Lodge of the Cognitive'_ _, same as the governor and Xe were_. He couldn't comprehend how three men living in the corners of the world, totally different from each other could be a member of anything, but he let it slide. There were a lot of things he didn't understand, like the stories the knight and Xe had kept telling each other, during the nights they had stayed together some years back. Stories about evil adversaries lurking in the shadows preying on the weaklings, Xe had called them _walkers,_ because they followed you in the empty streets during the night and you couldn't hear their steps, only sense them. Or how it was possible for a sane man to exchange words with a sword, listen to it advising him during battle better than an old warrior or an ugly witch.

The monk had talked about an evil spreading itself on the island. Devil-warriors were attacking the villages near Exeter, burning them down and leaving no one alive to tell the story. Words had surfaced of an old prophecy about a fallen demon that had come to bring forth the Christian apocalypse or whatever.

Philip didn't believe a thing. He had grown up being hunted down all of his adult life by a very evil man and after many hardships he had killed the said man and ridden himself of him. There was nothing with flesh and blood he couldn't kill, and the biggest magic he had ever witnessed in his short years, he had held in his hand. It was an eastern sword with a handle like a wolf's head.

"What are you thinking about?"

Rousse was standing next to him, his face sullen.

"Magic. Have you ever seen something you couldn't rationally explain Rousse?"

"One or two things." He gave him a side look.

"Like?"

The man turned his eyes on the large ship in front of them.

"Have I ever told you the story about the time I found you dying in a cave?" he told him after a while. Philip grimaced at the memory.

"Not recently."

"And did I tell you that I almost died from that arrow too? I never thought I was going to make it."

Philip patted him on the back with a grin.

"You did make it and you saved my sorry ass, so cheer up mate. We are _almost_ even in that department."

Rousse shook his head biting his lower lip. Two deep wrinkles had appeared on his forehead.

"I met a woman." He told him, his voice almost a whisper.

Philip gave him a serious look, but his eyes were teasing him.

"She healed me. I am serious Philip, listen to me."

"Oh, I am. This is excellent stuff; I want to hear the rest. Where did you find her, this... _Woman_?"

Rousse frowned and took a big breath before continuing.

"Actually she found me. She healed me and then she healed you. She saved your life Philip; I thought you were a goner."

He gave him a suspicious look.

"I thought you... saved my life. Was she a healer like you?"

"No. She was. She is... well you asked me about magic before."

Philip started laughing.

"For a moment there I thought you were serious. You were gonna say to me that you made little baby healers or something together."

"Philip I am serious."

His tone stopped his laugh. He scratched his head a look of surprise on his face.

"What are you saying man? She was a witch? Come on, you can't fall for something like that. Did you bed her? I bet you caught something and it messes up with your head."

"I believe her."

Philip stared at the tips of his shoes.

"What are you trying to say to me Rousse?" he asked him puzzled.

"I want you to think again about going on this fool's errant. I want you to take a moment and consider that maybe your precious governor isn't trying here to get rid of two birds with one stone."

Philip scowled at him.

"The governor is going to keep her here Rousse. You heard him, no land, no position, Lord Gonzalez lost everything. He will return to Castile without her."

"And you think that you can step in and make her happy. She will still be married Philip."

"Married to a dead man, means a widow in my tongue. Things have changed, without his cousin he is a worthless piece of aristocratic shit and the Duke of Leon is going to take his mutinous head anyway."

Rousse lowered his head to hide his sorrow.

"Even so, the governor will never let you have her Philip. That's the daughter of the Sultan we are talking about; a second princess and you are a named man because the governor allowed you to be one. You are nobody in his eyes, like me Philip. This is your fate..."

Philip cut him off almost spiting his next words out.

"Damn it man, I won't hear about this!" his face had turned red from anger and he paced the dock to calm his nerves with Rousse following at a short distance. "I will hunt this demon or whatever down and return to claim her as a Mawla. The people will greet me a hero."

"I fear he sends you to your death. What did Xe said to you? Have you spoken to him?"

Philip stopped and turned in his heels to face him.

"I will ask him. I will ask him to tell me what he thinks about all of this. He will back me up, you will see."

"For the love of the Goddess Philip, why can't you see reason? Leave this damn thing and enjoy your situation."

Philip tried to find the words to voice his disgust but he failed and he muffled out an incoherent sound.

"I will try to follow you, if you don't change you decision" Rousse told him and he gave him a nod still unable to utter an intelligent syllable.

.

Philip was standing on the stone wall running from the castle to the docks staring at the dark ocean. He couldn't see the ships docking on the harbor, but the wind brought the sounds of the night to him. Men and women laughing, singing and dancing in the warm night, happy or plain drunk.

_There over the dark blue sea you'll get your just reward_ , the sword whispered. _In your heart you know it._

He didn't belong here.

The thought pierced his mind and he almost growled with disdain. What did he want really? Was he a fool, to not understand simple truths like other people, should he lay back and do nothing? He had to do something. His mind told him that he had done a lot. He had improved his situation; he had come a long way from the penniless orphan living on roots and leftovers. He dreamt of a title and his own land and he'd gotten that. But damn his cursed soul he wanted more. He wanted Saida, he wanted his princess. Was he a fool, for believing in his dreams? Was he to believe that there was another woman waiting for him out there? _A princess from another realm._ Why had he thought of that? What if she was not a Princess but a woman that loved him for who he was inside? But his mind insisted, she is out there, you will find her. She did have a different face, in his dreams. Exotic eyes, strange... but beautiful eyes and she spoke in a foreign tongue. Was it a prophecy of things to come? Could it be that he hadn't met her yet, but was waiting for him in a faraway land? Was she even real?

The Asian was silent beside him. His face had begun to show his age, he noticed, although Philip wasn't sure about his years. Forty or fifty, maybe even more. He gave him a side glance.

"Let the plans you devise be as dark and unclear as the night, but when you decide to act do so shining and swiftly, like the lightning that falls from the sky." He repeated to him the first words the old man had said to him, when they first met. "I have to thank you for letting me have the _'Living sword'_. I know of its importance and I will wield it with honor."

Xe grunted. He spoke without looking at him.

"I hope you will treat the sword better than my teachings. Be wary of it, for it cannot be trusted." The disapproval was evident in his voice. "Everybody knows of your plans. Better to yell them a couple of times more before you leave so that everyone will have more understanding of your intentions."

"You know I care a lot about her." He sounded as he felt, hurt.

The Asian said something that sounded harsh even in his native language.

"A wise man decides sooner in matters of the heart. Too much time gone by, too late for regrets. Forget about her. Move on."

He tried to protest but he stopped him with his hand, he hadn't finished.

"You don't want the girl. You gave life to a dream and you wish to live it. A dangerous path to follow." He stared in his eyes and his voice lost some of its edge. "You've chosen to follow another path, when you came with me that day. It had led you here in this place. You've become a _'weapon-bearer'_. It is time to choose again Philip, not for the girl but for you. I could ask you to come with me, as it was my original plan, and see for yourself the Bosporus and Constantinople the grandest city of our time, but it is time to let you go your way. Let you see for yourself what you wish to be. It's only fair for a ' _weapon-bearer'_ to follow his own instincts. Listen to me on this though, if you leave for England, you must leave her behind. Ban her from your thoughts. This is not a road that will lead you back to her, do not fool yourself."

"You say then that I should stay?" he asked him.

"I say that you are old enough to answer this for yourself. You are not a boy anymore."

"I feel that I don't belong here."

The Asian nodded.

"Then maybe you don't." he said.

Philip turned his gaze to the dark harbor underneath them.

"Will I see you again if I leave Xe?" he asked the man he considered the closest thing to a family for the past five years.

The Asian that had given his title to a mule many years ago, in order to travel unnoticed half the known world in search for answers to quench his thirst for knowledge, closed his eyes for a moment and tried to see into their future. Blackness greeted him and the whispering shadows of long dead warriors.

"What is it?" Philip probed sensing his unease.

"I fear this is the end of our time together Philip Al-Salib and it has been an honor for me to have ridden along you for so long. You've come a long way." And he continued a touch of sadness hindering his voice 'may you find what you seek at the end of your journey. Ride with caution, choose your battles wisely and remember what the heart knows, walks afar from reason. It simply is."

.

The lights were going out on by one in the big city. Dark came then its black veils covering the streets and the docks, people stopped talking after a while. The world became silent. In its scabbard, the hilt of the sword flashed suddenly, its green light illuminating the room. A howling was heard above the city, it lasted a couple of seconds and then it was gone.

They were pleased.

The path was chosen.

This kingdom shall fall.

.

### Part VI

### .

(Lacroix)

.

(They left Lisbon in late May of 970 AD and reached Gascony in June. After a brief stop to replenish their supplies, the boat sailed again and passed the Pointe du Raz, in late June. The weather was pleasant and the sails helped them to leave the Cape of Brittany back rather quickly. They entered the English Channel in early July, eight years after the time he had left it behind him running for his life and the memories of his lost childhood friends flooded his senses, but he kept a tight leash on his emotions, he was another person now, he told himself, a man, not a scared boy. The mass of the English islands greeted them, covered in a thick wall of fog. They arrived at Exeter, an ancient Roman town, with its walls and burghs and the big High street dividing the town in two after four days and Philip touched dry land after the longest journey he had ever experienced by boat.)

.

Alim the leader of his bodyguards, and a man he could really call a friend as they had ridden together numerous times in the past months, approached as he breathed in the air of the strange land.

"This is the ugliest town I have ever laid my eyes upon." He told him in Moorish and shook his head in a disbelieving manner. "Maybe we should just let them all perish, Alhamdulillah, and rid the world of their stench."

Philip grinned at his despair and turned to watch his men unloading the large warship. A number of natives were coming towards them to see the strangers up close but they were keeping their distance. He read distrust and fear in their eyes and he didn't blame them. They were different all right, in their colorful attires and armed to the teeth and by the look of things these were simple folk, farmers mostly. Philip wondered if they could tell he was not really an Arab. He was wearing a turban covering his fair hair and his skin was tanned, a rich brown color, from the many hours he went riding back in Lisbon. Only his eyes were telling of his origins but as he walked around the pitiful docks he noticed that people were avoiding looking him in the eyes. They could tell, by his armor and the men accompanying him that he was important and by the looks of it, important in this part of the world also meant trouble for the simple people, he noticed bitterly.

Some things remained the same after all.

.

The men were unloading the horses and he heard the exclamations of admiration from the natives. He watched as Hamid the captain of his riders, a tall Nubian, brought towards him holding its reigns with a firm hand his grey destrier a magnificent horse he had bought, before they left Lisbon.

"They said we could put the horses in a stable they had prepared, but I think we better post some men to keep an eye out for them thieving bastards." He told him with his heavy African accent.

He nodded him that he should do that, just in case. No-one trusted no-one as it seemed. This was going to be a fun expedition. He allowed a small grin to appear on his lips. A gold-haired head caught his attention. It belonged to a girl no more than twenty. By her poor clothes and wrenched shoes Philip guessed she had seen her share of troubles. The girl was carrying a large bucket of water towards what seemed to be a tavern. It has been years since the last time he had seen blond hair on a woman and his eyes stayed on her until she disappeared inside the building.

"Do you want to eat something?" He asked Alim in a casual manner, noticing the man was watching him carefully.

"You want to spent time with the infidels Al Salib?" He asked him and his eyes narrowed with suspicion.

_Oh, for the love of the Goddess,_ Philip thought.

"I am an infidel too, Alim." He told him patiently. His lieutenant gave him a once over.

"No you are not." He said after a moment or two. "You are more Muslim than you think my lord. Sooner or later you will come to realize it."

Philip puffed hard trying to hide his frustration. He pointed to the tavern.

"I am going to eat something amongst them infidels, if it's okay with you."

The Arab bowed slightly, a sly grin on his face.

"Alhamdulillah." He said.

"Yeah, praise the Lord." Philip answered him and when he saw the man shaking his head knowingly he rolled his eyes.

.

Philip had made but three steps towards the inn when he was stopped by the coming of a group of well-dressed people. They stopped at a close distance and one of them, an old Englishman, approached examining him all the time with his eyes. When he reached him he extended his right hand and Philip took it in a firm shake.

"I heard of your arrival from the watch and decided to see for myself what the sea brought to us." He told him his voice that of a man of title and lands. A nobleman. That rubbed him somehow in the wrong way.

"The sea brought you nothing Sir." he corrected him. "The Governor of Lisbon on the other hand, did."

The man was thrown back by his retort. He examined him one more time more carefully and he seemed even more perplexed. Then his eyes stayed on his waistband, where he had his scabbard with the _'Wolf's Cry'._ His demeanor changed and his face grew serious all of a sudden.

"Oh, my God." He managed to say. "It cannot be."

Philip watched him trying to gather himself with wonder. A voice coming from behind him broke the awkward spell.

"Sir! My lord Eadwig." It was the monk, a fat yellow-skinned man, Philip had avoided aboard the ship like the Plaque. The man reached them and positioned himself between Philip and the Earl of Exeter, _third cousin to the royal consort Elfthryth;_ he recited quickly the official instructions on proper manners. "My lord, may I present to you Philip Al Salib, First Captain of his governor's guards. He is the man sent to deal _with our situation_."

Lord Eadwig nodded in acceptance. His eyes still held their troubled look.

"I will be honored if you joined me at dinner, Sir." He said to him in a formal manner.

"The honor will be mine my lord." He answered with a small curtsey, that'll do it, he thought pleased with himself.

.

Philip entered the tavern a little after and went straight for an empty table. He adjusted his armor and freed his hands from his leather gloves. He left them on the table and he turned as a man wearing an apron approached him, avoiding looking in his eyes. Two of his bodyguards, the riveted rings of wrought iron on their mail armors shining as they caught the light, entered the tavern and positioned themselves close to him. The man with the apron watched them from the corner of his eyes seemingly undecided, if he should speak first. Philip spared him.

"Are you the tavern keeper?" he asked him and when the man nodded that he was, he continued. "I want food for me and my men" he pointed to the two soldiers standing close by. "And something to drink, along with some cool clean water."

"If your lordship wants, I have prepared a beef and ale stew, it is almost ready." He told him.

"Bring it for me. Prepare something else for the men, no pork though or ale for them."

The tavern man left with his order and Philip realized that the place was almost empty. It was early, not nearly noon, but he expected more customers to come by the tavern for a drink or two. It was a Christian land after all. The girl he had previously seen outside came towards him carrying a large jug of wine and warm bread wrapped in a clean towel. She positioned them carefully on his table and after giving him a shy look, she turned to leave but he stopped her with his hand. The girl left out a small sigh and froze.

"What is your name?" he asked her but the girl had turned to stone. Philip examined her delicate features. She was shorter than him, but her body was fit and curved in all the right places, under that sorry excuse of a dress she wore. He liked what he saw; the problem was that the girl was standing as if she just had a stroke; the only movement was her trembling lower lip. He realized that she was dead scared.

That was ridiculous.

Absurd.

He was Philip Rabb-Al-Aswad-Warda.

First Captain of the Lisbon Guards.

People were paying him large dowries to bed their only daughters.

He grabbed her by the hand and forced her to sit down across him, on the table. She collapsed opposite him, her eyes never leaving the table. He poured wine in two tin cups he hoped they were cleaner than what they looked and he offered her one. She didn't take it.

"Will you look at me?" he asked her again in his best English. Maybe she didn't understand him, he thought. The tavern man returned bringing him his hot stew. His stomach growled as he stared at the plate in front of him. The man was stalling above him for some reason. Philip gave him a side glance.

"Is there a problem?" He asked him. The man cleared his throat before speaking.

"I was thinking Sir, if you have no more use for Marianne." He told him. He gave him a once over and the man stepped back scared.

"Is she your daughter?"

"No Sir."

Philip used a fork to taste a large piece of meat from his stew. He chewed on it, enjoying the rich flavor of the sauce. He realized the man was still there. He gave one last look at the girl, she had the loveliest face and her lips were ripe, ready for kissing. She was still looking at the table. He grunted annoyed by her stillness.

"Take her,' he told the tavern keeper, and with some scorn he added. 'I've had more of a conversation with my old mare than her anyway."

Philip regretted his words the moment he spoke them. The man tried to hide his displeasure as he helped Marianne stand. He reached across and cupped her hand with his. She was warm and he could feel her anxiousness.

"I apologize for my behavior." He told her as calmly as he could. She didn't say a word; she was looking at his bronzed hand engulfing hers. "In my land it is not polite for women to not speak when spoken too. But this is not my land; I should have stayed my tongue." He added sincerely.

The tavern keeper intervened and he withdrew his hand from hers.

"Marianne hasn't spoken a word since her parents were slain by the Damn-Danes four seasons back." He told him trying to solve the misunderstanding.

That actually made him feel even worse. He dived in his stew to hide his face as they walked away from him. I need Rousse, he thought. His friend had a way of handling these kind of things with more finesse. Still he had wronged her and that left a bad feeling in his stomach. It wasn't like him to behave in such a manner. _Rousse here or not I have to right this_ _thing_ , he thought.

Somehow.

.

The _thing_ still bothered Philip as the night set in. He had slept for a couple of hours after noon but the humidity and the different climate didn't help him rest and woke up grumpier than before. He dressed in the room he had rented in the tavern and went to have his official dinner with Lord Eadwig.

They reached the small castle and went inside the hall, where the Earl had prepared a small feast for them. He had Alim and Bahir, the captain of his archers, with him and they sat at the big square table along with the Earl, two of his senior men-at-arms and the monk he had brought with him from Lisbon.

A map of Devon was laid open on another table. He had seen better maps in the Lisbon palace so he turned his attention to the conversation of the men sitting with him on the bigger table.

"They attacked two villages near Clyst." Lord Eadwig was saying, his hand holding a large chalice of that excellent wine he had served them. Philip had refused a second cup in the presence of his men out of respect. "Killed two and thirty in the first village and burned the houses. Three days after that they attacked one of my underlings and killed everyone in his estate and the nearby village. Six and seventy had perished, along with my wife's sister and their three children."

"How many men?" Alim was the one that had asked the question.

"We have no exact number. Anywhere between ten and fifty."

"Ten? You believe so small a force is responsible for this mayhem?" Bahir said.

The monk cut in at that time and Philip eyed him suspiciously.

"We have some reports from farmers that spoke of only so many riders leaving from the area."

Alim sounded disgusted.

"This is ridiculous." He looked at Philip, his expression strained. "They know nothing. They sent for us to rid them of ten or fifty men. I can't believe this."

Lord Eadwig had turned his attention on him as well. He had to say something, but his mind was not on the raiders. He hadn't heard something to alarm him enough. Even fifty men were a small number to make him feel any fear. He had brought with him a small army. He could manage. His mind was filled with images of a gold-haired beauty. _An orphan_ , he thought. Like him. It bothered him he was so careless in his manners. The girl had enough problems of her own to bother her with his petty desires. Okay not exactly petty. They were looking at him he noticed. _Everyone in the fucking room_. He had to say something.

"You said they burned everything." Philip asked the Monk. "What of the bodies? How where they killed?"

"We found no bodies." Came his answer.

Now that... was interesting.

"They have taken them then?"

The monk searched the Earl's face for approval. He nodded to him to answer his question.

"The places were burned down. Totally. We found only ashes. No bodies, we assumed the people were burned in the fire. No one had ever seen something like this before."

Philip stared him in silence; he waited for the monk to speak his mind.

"It is the Devil's work." The man added. _No it isn't_ , he thought.

And he smiled at his words, but his eyes were dead serious.

"I do not believe in your Devil monk." He told him icily.

"How do you explain it then?" Lord Eadwig cut in. He turned to him and he saw his eyes mocking him. Daring him to reveal some kind of hidden knowledge. He was mistaken, he held none.

"There is nothing to explain. They burned the bodies. It is fucked up, but they didn't call on the Devil, to do it. You are weaving tales here."

The monk wanted to kill him with his look. He dared him to try and the man backed up.

"We can search the villages for clues. Maybe we can pick up some tracks." Alim suggested to break the tension between them and the Earl seemed satisfied at that.

"Get some rest then." He told them. "You are riding in the morning."

.

The Earl grabbed him by the arm before exiting.

"I haven't seen a Weapon-bearer before." He told him holding his grip firm, keeping his voice low. Philip pulled his hand free.

"Maybe you are not getting out much." He gave him a half grin.

"How old are you really? You can't be more than twenty."

"I think I will be twenty one this winter." He told him and he seemed surprised.

"How long have you got the weapon in your possession? What are his powers?"

"That is not for you to know." Philip didn't like him asking so many questions. "What do you know of the men we came here to fight?"

He backed off and examined him as if trying to determine his intentions.

"A very old legend speaks of a time demon... something that came from the 3rd Realm, the Tari-Waqt, just like your sword, it is written in the Old Words."

Philip cut him off.

"The 3rd Realm? A demon? Written in where ever you've said, are you serious? That seems a lot like a tale to scare off dim-witted peasants."

"Everyone in the _Lodge_ knows of these things. Don't you know of Tare-Burud, the frozen hell? I thought you knew."

He wasn't happy. Well neither was he.

"I don't."

Lord Eadwig seemed like he was examining something behind his neck, but he wasn't going to let him go so easy. He waited for his answer.

"I can't believe you are a _Weapon-bearer_." The man wasn't going to open up.

"I can't believe you are holding back on me. Telling me lies. You've invited us here in the first place." The Earl shrugged his shoulders; Philip felt his nerves tense with his ploys. "Spit it out, what exactly is happening here?"

Another silence, another blank stare. The man was playing him. He turned on his heels and started walking for the exit. His voice caught up with him before he left the hall.

"I never called for you Weapon-bearer."

Yeah right.

Philip had come here because he loved the weather.

.

Alim knew something was up the minute he walked in the castle yard.

"He is lying through his teeth." He told him.

The Arab nodded.

"Have your eyes open tomorrow." He paused and then he added. "Tell the men to sleep with the weapons at arm's length tonight."

Alim bowed in agreement. "Al Salib." He said and left to do his bidding.

.

Philip went in his room and closed the door behind him. He remembered the stare he received from the tavern keeper when he gave him the coin purse. These people were savages, cunning and unworthy of trust. Maybe he should have given the gold coins to the girl himself. Better to inquire tomorrow before they left, just to be sure. He didn't trust anyone in this godforsaken place.

There was a knock on his door.

Philip had removed his mail armor and was wearing only his trousers. He went for his sword, grabbed it by the hilt and the blade flashed in the light of the two big oil lamps, as he unsheathed it. The damn weapon was silent, no wise words. That relaxed him a little.

"Enter." He said aloud.

There was a moment of silence and then the door handle turned slowly. The wooden door squeaked as it opened inside. A small figure entered his room. He noticed the golden curls and he lowered his blade. The girl.

"Marianne." He checked, keeping his voice low.

The girl had the color of the wall across him. She made three small steps and then stopped; he noticed that she kept a wooden table between them. He held his purse in her hands.

"I see you got them." He said to her, feeling rather uncomfortable all of a sudden. "There is no need..."

She shot her head up and he noticed her eyes had the color of warm honey. She was glaring at him. Had he done something again? She raised her right arm and offered him his purse back. There is that of course, his mind mocked him. He looked at the said purse feeling, if that was even possible, even more uncomfortable.

"No. That is yours." Philip managed to say. Her eyes sparkled with fury. She moved her head right and left, her hair moved along and he forgot himself. His eyes lowered, she wore a dress with a modest neckline, but he could make out the swell of her breasts as she moved. He heard her low threatening growl and turned his look on her face again. Wow. She had some color on her cheeks now. She looked furious too, not good.

"Listen,' he said, slowly as if he was talking to a dumb child. 'I have great wealth back... where I come from, anyway. This is for you. To help you. Buy some clothes or food or something."

_Seriously?_ He asked himself, _buy some clothes or something? What are you ten?_

The girl was turning a greater shade of red. Her eyes were at his chest and then as if she'd just realized something, she turned her look away embarrassed.

Great, he thought. He made a move to circle the table to get closer but she retreated, a panicked look in her face. She stumbled and started falling. He moved as quickly as he could and grabbed her by the waist and secured her in his arms.

She went still immediately.

"Relax." he told her reassuringly in her ear. He could see she had cleaned herself up, but she used no scented oils like the women in Lisbon. He liked her smell, it excited him. "I am not going to hurt you." His cock stirred in his pants calling him a liar. He shifted and he heard her exhale. "Please sit down; I am not going to touch you." He let her go.

She turned slowly to face him. Her long lashes drew his gaze to her eyes, _goddess she's beautiful,_ he thought. He felt another stir in his pants. He cleared his throat and looked around him; he saw the wine jug on the table and smiled.

"Let me offer you some wine." Philip sat down and patted the chair across him.

Marianne looked at the chair. Then she examined his face. He threw her a toothy smile and she blushed. She went for the chair with a sound that looked a lot like a giggle.

Thank the Goddess.

Philip placed the sword on the table next to him and poured them two cups of red wine. Then raised his and toasted.

"I drink to many happy days." He said to her in a comic tone. She smiled at him and his breath caught in his chest. She drank from her cup and he saw the tip of her pinkish tongue wipe her lower lip from the wine.

"Zamilla." the Arabic word escaped his lips unwittingly. Her eyes questioned him and he gulped at his wine finishing his cup. He quickly poured himself another one. She was looking at him with what could only be described as interest. Examining his face as if trying to memorize his features.

"I want you to take the coins.' He started trying to regain his footing. 'I have to tell you... I am an orphan like you. I had a very difficult life. I know you are proud, but you should know that I just want to help you."

Philip stood up and walked towards the widow on the far wall of his room.

"I don't want anything in return." He paused, trying to convince himself to continue. "I came here because I was sent for to do a job. After I am done I will return to Lisbon."

He returned to the table and had another sip of his wine. The girl was still examining his every move, with something that now looked more like fascination. Philip smiled and she smiled back at him.

"It is fantastic to speak like that," he said to her. "It is like talking with myself, which is okay in a way. You are probably just happy I haven't rape you or something. You must think I am some kind of an out of his mind foreigner, searching for a cheap thrill to pass his time."

Her eyes had turned to the hilt of the sword. The head of the wolf, with its red eyes, stared back at her.

"It's just a sword. Don't let it scare you." He said to her and this time Marianne turned her honey colored eyes on him.

"E-vil." She said, the words coming out with difficulty from her lips.

Philip was stunned and he lifted the sword off the table and threw it on his bed.

"Not evil." He said to her. "It is just a special ancient sword." He looked at her face trying to read her expression. "I thought you couldn't speak."

"Di-dn't w-ant to." She said.

"But you want to now."

"O-nly to you."

"Why me?" he asked her and her cheeks burned from embarrassment.

"Be-cau-se you a-polo-gize." She lowered her eyes. "No o-ne e-ver does."

"I am sorry for that Marianne. It is nice to hear your voice."

He looked at the cup in his hands.

"So are you going to accept my help?" he asked her.

She extended her hand and cupped his, she was warm and he felt his skin shivering under hers.

"What is Za-mi-lla?" she asked him her eyes searching his with an intensity he hadn't noticed before.

Philip almost lost his words.

"Beautiful." He said and her grin set his blood on fire.

.

It was a rough ride. When they reached the burned out village, they were disappointed. There was nothing left. Only the outline of the houses. _Whoever did this,_ he thought, _was more than meticulous and left absolutely nothing behind him._

Damn my horses.

His destrier neighed loudly and he patted his neck. The large animal shook his mane and he heard Alim's horse nearing him from the side. He turned to watch him and the man gave him a disappointed look. Damn, he cursed again under his breath. They had nothing. It was like someone had wiped the village off the face of this earth.

Philip pulled the reigns and his horse turned. He whistled loudly and the men searching around the burned houses stopped at the sound. He cursed one more time inside maddened from frustration.

"Give the order." He told Alim and the man raised his hand.

"We are leaving!" he yelled. "Get your arses to move now!"

The return journey was completely uneventful.

.

Another week had passed. It was raining again. The sky had a bluish color and thunders were echoing in the chilly mid-afternoon. _This isn't summer weather_ ; Philip hated this country. He poured more wine in his cup from a small table near his bed and the strong taste created a burning river in his larynx as he gulped it down.

It was not all bad though. He could still feel her kiss on his lips. She watched her sleeping silently beside him and he felt his heart warm up. There was a small frown on her face as if she was having a bad dream and she had bitten her lower lip. Philip touched the golden curls of her hair tenderly and she let out a tiny sigh. The frown had disappeared; she now seemed content, relaxed in her sleep.

He was not. A strange feeling was creeping up on him and he couldn't place it. Philip cleared his mind of these thoughts and concentrated on Marianne instead. He was going to take her with him. It was a sudden change in his plans but he felt like he had found a purpose again. He was going to secure her future and help himself at the same time. She soothed him with her presence and he needed that. No more brooding, he told himself, no more crazy haunting dreams, this is a fine deal. He smiled pleased at the thought of showing her Lisbon, of all the things he could buy for her and then his eyes strayed and fell on the beast's head.

A green light shot from the sword and illuminated the dimly lit room. His heart started beating faster, the adrenalin kicking in and he rose from the bed.

Danger is coming be prepared.

Damn you, Philip cursed, his good mood going down the drain.

Can't you be more specific?

_A village on the north_ , the sword replied.

"What is it?" she heard her murmur waking up. He didn't answer her; he went for the window instead and looked at the empty street below him. Nothing.

"Wh-at was that thing?"

He looked at her naked torso and watched in fascination as the pink peaks of her nipples became aroused. It was an effort to utter his next words.

"Do not worry yourself with that. I have to go out. Don't leave this room." He told her as soothingly as he could master.

Philip wore his coat and shoes quickly and he'd reached the door before pausing, his hand already on the handle.

"I want to talk to you about something rather important when I get back." He told her quickly before he lost his nerve.

"I have nowhere else to go." Marianne answered her round eyes centering on him like small lakes of honey; he realized that one could easily lost himself in them.

"I promise you that this will soon be remedied." Philip said and before she could answer him left the room.

Marianne stared at the closed door for a few seconds before the words dropped out of her mouth.

"I will go anywhere with you." She said to the empty room surprised, as if she had just realized it.

.

There was nothing out of the ordinary in the town's main road. Some of his men were talking in a corner of the building and the guards were posted in their places. Philip searched for Alim. He found him sharpening the blade of his Saracen sword outside the stables.

"How soon can we ride?" he asked him and the man thought about it for a brief moment.

"Half an hour." He said.

"Get on it." It was an order and the Arab started rising on his feet.

"Where to, Al Salib?" he inquired.

"To the nearest village on the North. I have a hunch." He told him and the dark-skinned man shook his head in understanding.

There were out of the town half an hour later.

.

The sword was right.

The houses were burning. The flames raised high in the darkening sky and illuminated the area around the small village, forty kilometers outside Exeter. The rain had stopped but there was mud everywhere, straining the horses, making it difficult to gallop. He had taken his guards with him and the sum of his riders. The first of them were entering the village at that time.

It was a small farming village. No more than ten badly built dwellings, most of them had already crumbled, their walls caving in. Smoke and the smell of burnt flesh were evident in the air and Philip heard some of his men praying to Allah. Too late for them, he thought and pulling at the reigns turned towards an opening between the buildings.

He was still thinking that they were late when a cry in the Moorish tongue had risen above the sounds of the fire. His hand dropped to his waistband and he pulled his sword out. Kicking lightly the sides of the horse with his heels he rode towards the sound. It was coming from the far corner of the village, the opposite direction from where they had just entered.

It was almost dark and he couldn't make out a lot of the details in the light coming from the fires. Philip approached the spot and he heard the sound of horses coming up from behind him. He heard Alim's voice calling him but he didn't answer to protect his position. The sound of galloping now coming towards him from the front tensed him up and he raised his round shield with his left hand. There were two, maybe three horses coming towards him. The next moment he saw them passing next to a burning dwelling and in the lights he recognized two of his riders hunting a stranger wearing some kind of dark armor.

The man had a long scaled armor, a hauberk that reached just above his knees on him along with a helmet covering most of his face. He had never seen so much armor on a person before and he was impressed by it, but it was a feeling that passed quickly so moving forward he blocked his path with his horse. The man noticed him in turn but instead of slowing down as he expected him to do; he lifted a sword he had in his hand, high above his head and with a loud battle-cry charged him without further delay.

He was mad.

Danger.

His destrier neighed loudly as the rider came at full force on him. Philip turned just a little, barely in time and his shield took a mighty blow, the force of it lifted him off the saddle and he started falling down. He crashed on the muddy ground with a loud thud and he stayed there disoriented for a second.

Philip opened his eyes and saw the stranger looking at him behind the iron helmet. He realized that he still had his weapon in hand and kicking with his feet he quickly got up. The man glanced behind him and then for some reason he jumped from his horse and stood unmoving as the riders approached him. Philip heard their spears tearing the air as they hit him one on the shoulder and the other piercing through his thigh. The strange soldier jolted violently but he didn't fell.

Instead he somehow pulled the spear out of his thigh and threw it on the ground. Then he grabbed the other one and broke it, leaving the steel tip inside him. With a growl he raised his sword and attacked his men. They had jumped from their horses and were approaching him holding their back up spears. He reached the first one before Philip could even blink and cut off his head. The rider fell on the ground and his angry friend retaliated by piercing the stranger in his belly.

He had to help.

Of course you have.

Philip started running towards them, his heart beating in his chest, his ears hurting and he reached them, right at the moment when the stranger with another guttural sound head-butted the poor rider and threw him on his back, his face a bloodied mess. He attacked him and slashed him on his unprotected back, tearing the armor and cutting him deep. The man growled loudly and turned almost catching him with a clenched fist.

Philip back-stepped nailing one more hit, this time below the neck but the armor protected the stranger. Philip blocked his next attack with his shield and he was again amazingly thrown back by the power of his blow. The stranger was as strong as a bull.

Left hit. Turn.

He dodged the hit with his sword and gave him a swipe with his shield that landed on his helmet, knocking his head back. Philip advanced on him and landed two more blows in quick succession, one on the same spot below his neck this time tearing the armor and drawing blood and the second as he pulled back his sword, just above the elbow of his left arm. The blade cut through muscle and bone and left the arm useless in an awkward angle bleeding profoundly. He paused for a moment watching the stranger examining his wounds without uttering a single word.

What the hell?

Right hit, frontal attack.

The sword came at him like lighting; he used the edge of his shield to block it, but the blade sliced through metal and hardened wood and rode the length of his shield just above his holding hand, cutting it in two uneven pieces. The shield broke apart but he had bigger problems, the man was coming at him again. He blocked two more of his attacks, each time the force of the blows pushing him back but he managed to wound the stranger one more time. A deep cut above his right knee.

It didn't slow him down. He kept on coming at him, landing blow after blow. The sword was whispering in his ears to forget about defense and go on the attack.

He will get tired eventually, he argued.

No he won't.

Another failed blow with sparks from the clashing blades landing on his face and burning his skin, and Philip decided to listen. He side-stepped and attacked from his opponent's weak side, a clean cut and this time the injured arm fell off. The stranger came at him with a growl and the swords came together with such force, he feared his battered shoulder might pop again from its socket. Wouldn't that be amazing? He thought. Well it didn't, but something equally amazing did.

The stranger's sword broke in three pieces. He had to keep his mouth closed to hide his surprise at his own skill, but his opponent shared none of the common human characteristics it seemed. He just yelled with renewed fury and attacked him with the broken weapon, its remaining blade that of a small dagger's.

That's crazy, Philip thought.

Without blinking he sliced through the stranger's armor, cutting him deep on the chest above his heart and after avoiding another swipe by him, he pierced that same spot, the blade sinking deep, stopping him at last.

He stepped back and pulled the _Wolf's Cry_ from the wound. The man was still standing, he couldn't see his face and he neared him to examine him better.

Danger.

The stranger moved faster than he thought was humanly possible and grabbed him with his lone hand by the neck with such force that he crushed his windpipes and cut off his breathing. Blankness blurred his vision and with panic hot on his trails he lifted his blade and stabbed with its tip an uncovered area under the man's jaw, between the stranger's helmet and his chainmail hauberk. Fresh blood started pouring out the wound but he felt astounded the stranger's damn fingers tightening their grip ever more. He needed oxygen. Fast.

Philip stilled his eyes on the soldier's face hearing Alim's voice on his back calling his name. _Let go._ He told him in a silent stare. The man pressed harder and he felt the strength leaving his limbs.

The sword became hot in his hand and the vibrating blade pierced the man's skin, slicing the soft tissue as it moved onwards on its own. It cut through his mouth, severing his tongue and breaking his teeth and then ripped through the soft palate before entering his cranium.

With a quaver the man collapsed letting go of his neck at last. Philip inhaled hard the fresh air burning his lungs but he was still dizzy and Alim grabbed his arm to steady him as he reached the spot.

"Tell them to check the other rider," Philip told him with difficulty "Goddess. He almost broke my neck."

Alim kneeled next to the fallen enemy soldier and removed his helmet retrieving _Wolf's Cry_ in the process. One of his guards offered him water from a flask and he took it, drinking greedily, the cool liquid soothing his pestered throat. He ordered his riders to sweep the village for any other enemy soldiers. Hamid immediately went on to execute his orders, barking loudly to his men.

"Alhamdulillah!" he heard a flabbergasted Alim say. He was still kneeling above the dead soldier. He approached him with large strides and bent to see for himself whatever it made the man so surprised with. Maybe it was too dark. Philip couldn't see anything except the butchered man. He finally gave up.

"What is it Alim?" he asked him in Moorish. He was two and thirty, almost too old to serve, the most experienced of his men and he respected his opinion above everyone else's.

"I have seen great many things,' the man told him, his voice steady but with an edge on that Philip could not decipher its origin. Is it fear or awe? 'but never a man keep on fighting with a pierced heart." He pointed at the wound he had made earlier with his sword. It was deep and the blood dark red as it'd flowed from the cut, down his armor. He was right, he noticed, it was a deadly hit, he had clearly pierced the brigand's heart with his blade. _How had the man kept on fighting him with that kind of damage?_

"I thought I got him good with that one." Philip murmured more to himself.

"This is the work of an _Iblis_." Alim said looking around him wearily.

"I don't believe in Demons my friend." He told him keeping his voice low so as to avoid being heard by the rest of the men. Alim gave him a half grin.

"Yet everyone says you carry a demon-sword with you, Al Salib." He mocked him and Philip frowned but kept his tongue from lashing out.

"A weapon cannot fight by itself Alim. Someone has to wield it. Whatever this man was, he is dead now and I doubt I could have killed a demon." He told him, but even he didn't believe his own words. His mind persisted in tormenting him with disturbing thoughts. _A sword to kill a god, the Asian had told him_. Or a demon, he added and closed his eyes in frustration.

Goddess.

Things had just gotten messier.

.

Philip stayed with a search party behind but they found nothing, the riders had vanished leaving mayhem behind them. They were the last to return to Exeter after midnight. He went straight to the tavern and his room, making a mental note to confront the Earl, first thing in the morning. The girl was laid still on the bed and he decided against waking her up. He lit an oil lamp on a table far from the bed and sat down, his mind heavy in thoughts.

Philip knew he had to somehow provoke the brigands. Draw them out in an open battle in order to destroy them. He couldn't keep playing their game, following them after every attack. He would never finish the job in good time this way and if this was what summer looked like in this land, he dreaded of the coming winter. He had the sudden urge to escape this damn place as soon as possible. _Get a grip of yourself_ , he told himself. _Snap out of it._

"People say you killed one of them today." The girl was awake after all.

Brilliantly, he thought.

"They killed a lot of people again. It was hardly a victory, considering the bastard crippled two of our own." Philip said that a little too hard but she seemed to understand his frustration.

"No one had ever killed a demon before you came here."

Marianne came toward him wrapped only in a linen sheet and he could feel the heat emanating from her feminine body. Her eyes sparkled in the light of the lamp and despite his weariness he felt the need to take her returning.

"He was not a demon Marianne. It's just superstition." He told her calmly wrapping his arms around her slim waist as she sat on his lap. She pressed her lips on his mouth and he felt the tip of her tongue briefly tasting him. She was getting bolder with everyday that passed. Like a flower opening up little by little, letting him savor its exotic juices.

"Your people say that 'Al Salib' is a mighty warrior. That he defeated the minions of a great warlord by himself and saved a beautiful princess, even before he came of age. They sing about your adventures." She said examining his face, her eyes worrying for a moment, on the bluish marks clearly visible around his neck.

"I was hardly by myself. Arabs tend to exaggerate heavily on their tales." He said embarrassed by her blatant admiration.

"Which part? Was there not a princess?" her voice was like a whisper, her index finger tracing the outline of his jaw. "Is she one of your wives? Arabs have many my people say. Or maybe you have only one."

The pain of the memory almost killed him on the spot. He exploded before he could restrain himself.

"I have _no_ wives, never had a need for them!"

_Damn, why was he angry with her?_ Philip couldn't understand himself. He felt that he was all tied up in a knot all of sudden.

A tick had appeared on his face and her finger found it and touched it tenderly until it was gone. It surprised him she hadn't left the room after his outburst.

He didn't deserve her.

"What is _Rabb Al Aswad Warda_?" She asked him softly, like nothing had occurred and he cupped her hand with his own stopping her caresses and her maddening questions, before he lost his control completely. It was late, he had to get some serious rest but the girl was messing with his mind, drawing him again in her warm velvet embrace.

"You little minx." He murmured in her ear and she giggled placing her hands around his neck. Her body was warm, and he felt her heat entering him, his cock strained his pants, as the girl adjusted herself opening her thighs the sheet slid from her shoulders and fell on the floor. He freed himself feverishly using his right hand keeping his left on her waist and entered her easily in one swift stroke. He felt pure bliss. She gasped and bitten at the skin of his shoulder drawing a little blood, but the pain fueled his passion and he started moving in her already wetted womb, with an increasing speed until he heard her crying out his name, her muscles contracting around him and he let his own orgasm hit him like a tornado.

.

The Earl was keeping his mouth shut. He kept repeating the same nonsense about demons and Realms and ridiculous hocus pocus. He was not going to give them anything solid to go on. Philip was furious with the whole situation.

"Get seventy men." He ordered Hamid. "Take all your riders and the footmen with you. Search the nearby villages for groups of armed men, dressed in a similar manner to the one we killed the other night. Spent as much coin as it is needed, but learn something. Send word when you find them, but do not engage them in battle. Be careful. Wait for me to come. Do you understand?"

The man nodded.

"Al Salib, may the Prophet guide your shadow. It will be done." He told him.

"Praise the Lord." Philip murmured and he watched him go away. He heard Alim disagree before he even opened his mouth to voice the actual words.

"Philip, you are sending him with more than half our men. Is this wise?" he asked.

"I want to shake them out Alim. I want to get this thing done and leave this godforsaken place behind me. I am not going to wait here idle for the weeks to become months." He told him his tone severe. _Not when I can be in Lisbon a respected Mawla with Marianne right by my side._

The older man shook his head. Philip felt his blood boil with anger.

"What!' he barked at him, the veins on his neck showing clearly. 'do you want to sit here, in this...' he looked around him in despair taking in the muddy roads and the rotten houses. '...this stinking, ugly town and wait for the winter? I smell horseshit every damn morning, the water is filthy and barely drinkable and they eat the same fucking thing every day! I could probably get a better price on a horse, if I paid in honey not coins. They have nothing!" Philip cursed loudly again and turned his head towards the stables. "Get your men ready and tell Bahir to ready the archers, we will ride as soon as the message comes. We will get them bastards and rid ourselves from this pain."

Alim uttered not even a single word. He was much too experienced and knew him well enough to argue with him when his tempers flared.

Which suited Philip just fine.

Damn.

.
.

(A week later, August 970 AD.)

.

Philip watched her coming towards him, her golden hair catching the sun and a smile came on his lips unwittingly. Her eyes went from him to his men, examining their gestures trying to figure out their strange ways. In her eyes they were foreigners still, men of a different religion, of another faraway culture. He had tried hard to describe his world to her, the grand citadel, the gardens with the clean water running through them. The different foods and tastes. The music. She was learning fast, absorbing information with a speed and skill he hadn't seen before and he was proud of her, but she was still weary of their differences. He was going to fix that. Marianne was beautiful and she loved him with an abandon he never dreamed of finding in a woman.

"Your zawja is coming Al Salib." One of his archers pointed out. A dark-skinned Berber with the face of an assassin. He was always uneasy around them, not that anyone trusted them; their ways were too exotic even for the Arabs.

"Better to remember that." He scolded him and the man backed off, giving him a mean look. He didn't bother himself with him for long; he turned and gave Marianne a big grin.

"Cats smile when they do bad things." She told him in that oh-so-lovely voice.

"I do not concern myself with the pets of women." He grinned at her some more for emphasis.

She smiled back and cupped his hand with hers, giving a side glance to his men, that were blatantly staring at them.

"What is zawja?" She asked him never missing a word. He frowned and cleared his throat before speaking. She was looking into his eyes so intently he almost lost his words; Marianne was having an ever increasing disturbing effect on him. He had to somehow, fix that too.

"It is... well, it's when a woman belongs to a man. In a way." He heard one the men behind him trying to muffle his laugh.

"A slave?" her voice was sad.

"What? No. It is more like a _wife_." He almost whispered the last word but she heard him. Of course she did. Her face lit up and his turned red. His ears were burning up and he felt like he was a ten-year-old again, being caught by Rae peeping under her skirt.

"Like a wife? _Not_ a wife then. Of course. You did say you had no need of wives."

She was teasing him. When did he lose the upper hand here? Minx, he thought.

"I didn't. But now I think I am rather fond of a certain someone." He told her finally, hearing some of the men openly laugh with his predicament. _That hadn't come out right_. He pressed on. "A girl with hair like gold that I seriously intent to take with me when I leave this place." Her eyes were fixed on his face but he couldn't read her and he felt his courage diminish rapidly. He almost had a panic attack, _was she going to refuge him?_ He thought. _Goddess spare me, I'm dying here_. He desperately tried another approach. "That is if you want me—" but he never finished.

She kissed him.

Full on the mouth taking his breath away and the men exploded making almost roaring sounds behind him, their cries startling the nearby locals. Some of them stopped their businesses and watched them with startled eyes making out in the street, shaking their heads.

He didn't give a horse's arse about them.

_That was a yes then_ , he thought pleased.

Thank the Goddess.

.

(The next couple of weeks will pass without any word from the party he sent out to find the brigands. Philip rented a bigger room in the tavern and had the girl moved in with him. He wrote a letter to Rousse explaining him the situation and another to his manservant in Lisbon to arrange the purchase of a villa near the land the governor had given him. He send both letters as soon as he had written them. He wanted everything to be ready for their return. Philip was anxious, because Marianne told him in the last quarter of August that she suspected she was with child. Everything had changed after that.

She insisted that the child should have a surname as all the old English Lords had. Since he was a Lord and a mighty warrior in her eyes, he more than qualified but since Philip didn't actually have one, she used his Arab nickname. 'We will be the Lacroix family from now on' she told him one day frowning at his expression. 'It is a good name. It speaks of God's sacrifice' she finished, her smile creating those two oh-so-cute dimples he absolutely loved. Philip just didn't have the strength to argue with her.

Somehow along the way she had grown on him. She was not Saida, certainly not the princess of his dreams, but he was not living in a dream-world anymore. Marianne was his, she loved him unconditionally and in his own peculiar way, he loved her enough. Philip made a habit out of watching her sleep in the early hours of the summer mornings and he imagined for long what their child will be like. His child, that will have a name, a big wealthy home and two loving parents. A life free of worries. He realized that he wanted to see that happening. Maybe they did belong in Lisbon after all, he thought, the three of them could make this happen. For the first time in his life he felt content. Secure.)

.

.

### Part VII

### .

(The other path)

.

(Late August 970 AD, hills near Teignton.)

.

The man was walking funny as if he was drunk. Suddenly he stumbled and almost fell headlong on the rocky surface, but by some miracle he regained his footing and managed to cover another ten meters down the path they were guarding. Hamid eyed him wearily and then turned to a senior footman.

"Go and check him out." He told him keeping his voice low.

Four of the footmen started moving towards the wrenched man. As they closed in on him they soon realized that it was not a case of strong liquor that had him brought to his current state. The man was badly burnt. The whole right side of his body was eradicated by fire. He had burns on his hand and face, his hair had disappeared and replaced by a melted skin filled with huge cysts that burst and dripped pus. His torso was badly burnt and his bare right leg had a terrible blackened color. He was trying to speak but he seemed unable to do it as part of his mouth was gone and his teeth were showing in a gaping hole, forming a grotesque half-grin.

"Alhamdulillah!" cried one of the footmen and he stepped back when the deformed man tried to touch him. Another shoved him hard on the back with the bat of his axe and the man fell on his knees.

"Stop that!"

Hamid approached the men with determined strides, his face showing his anger.

"You shall not hit him again!"

The footmen backed off to let him pass. He stooped above the injured stranger and examined him for a couple of seconds.

"Can you understand me?" he asked in a polite manner in the English tongue. The man raised his head and fixed his good eye on him. He nodded he did. Hamid kneeled beside him. He voice took a sympathetic tone. "Who did this to you?"

"They came." The man moaned from the pains and his stare lost its focus for a moment.

"Who did? Where is your village?" Hamid urged him.

"He brought the fire." The man said in a ruptured voice. "But he said. He said they could make a deal."

"What are you saying? What kind of deal? Hey... Damn." The man had fainted. Hamid looked around him but he saw only granite and rocky terrain, circling small valleys. A good enough hiding place. It seemed fitting to him. _A hell-hole_ , he thought, _to hide the devils of this land._

"Hamsin!" He barked and one his riders stepped closer. "Go get your horse and ride to town. Tell Al Salib we may have found where they're hiding. I would attempt in the meantime to corner them. Tell him to hurry. We need his archers, the horses are worthless on this terrain."

The man rode as fast as he could.

The sun was up; its rays fell on the rocky boulders around them making them turn a brilliant white. Hamid had the disturbing thought that they looked a lot like bones. And that they were standing on the giant skeleton of an ancient beast.

.

Alim was pounding on the door with such force he feared the whole thing would fall off its hinges. Philip wrapped a shirt around his hips and went to open. His lieutenant was puffing hard, _had he run to bring him news from the search party?_ That could only mean one thing.

"Hamid?" he inquired and the older Arab nodded.

"A rider came. They found them, up on the hills of Devon, near Teignton." He paused briefly to catch his breath and he continued. "We have to ride soon. The terrain is a rotten mess and he can't use the horses."

"Give me half an hour." Philip told him.

.

He had to put his armor on. The _Wolf's Cry_ was in its scabbard, on the nearby table. Philip touched the mesh of his mail and felt the metal rings cool on his fingertips.

"Does it hurt?" Marianne asked him. She was worried. She hadn't said much after Alim left him alone to prepare and he knew he had to ease her fears. He brought his hand on his broad chest and touched the scar 'Al Qatil' had left him as a souvenir. He had more of course, one on his back, another one on his face and he was missing a couple of teeth. _They did hurt love_ , he thought. When the seasons change, or when he had not rested well enough. His left hand was still slower and his shoulder felt like it could fall every time he lifted his shield, but he couldn't tell her that. He couldn't tell her that there were days, when he felt he was much older than his years. _Weathered like an old house and you are not even twenty-one yet_. He plastered a smile on his face hoping to pass her scrutiny.

"They are not as bad as they look." She neared him, seeming not less worried.

"When will this stop Philip?" she asked wrapping her hands around his waist. "What if...' she stopped avoiding his questioning eyes. 'you don't have to go. You can send Alim and the others. They could manage—"

He kissed her lightly on the lips silencing her.

"I came with them. They trust me Marianne; I can't let them face this one by themselves. I am a soldier just like they are."

"You are not just a soldier, you are my soldier." She told him and he smiled seeing the fire in her eyes.

"Always love. Don't you ever forget that." He murmured drawing her closer.

And kissed her again.

.

Alim pointed the spot on an ugly and probably not that accurate drawing of the area.

"They are either in this small valley here, or they are nesting further up, but it is a bare area, no shade in acres. So I doubt it. Hard to stay for long under the sun." He said and Philip frowned examining the terrain.

"So we can't use the horses. But it is an one way road; you have to travel through these narrow paths to reach it. So if we block the entrance with the footmen and place the archers with some of the riders on foot, above this lowering, we would have effectively cut them off completely." He pointed at the drawings of the granite boulders.

"It is a very big area Al Salib. Too many places for a small group to hide."

Philip gave it some thought.

"You fear that we will miss them?"

"Having the bulk of our forces in that narrow path is what worries me."

"So have them stand outside."

"What if they are attacked from the back? Where will they retreat? The only road left for them, would be inside that same valley."

He searched his face for clues. The older man was restless.

"What is the matter Alim? You seem rather anxious." He asked him.

"I have a bad feeling about this. Like my fate is showing me two different paths here. I am not sure which the right one is."

Philip grinned and patted him on the back.

"You know I don't believe in kismet my friend." He told him. "Listen, Hamid is already there, he has seen the terrain, and we will ask him what he thinks. What do you say?"

"I say that I didn't like this place from the very start. But your will is my command Al Salib."

Philip shook his head in disbelief. _You have to love the Arabs_ , he thought. Neither agreeing, nor disagreeing.

.

They were ready to leave. Three large four-horsed wagons carrying twenty archers along with their provisions and eleven, including him, heavily armored Moorish men-at-arms on horseback. Their green banners raised high on the clear August sky. The people of Exeter exited their homes to watch them depart, but he didn't find a single kind stare among them. He cursed them all to the seven hells under his breath and he focused his attention on Marianne who detached herself from the small crowd and walked to him.

He bend to speak to her as she stood next to his destrier.

"I want you to go to the ship and stay with the captain until I get back." He told her, suddenly unwilling to part with her. "I don't trust your people."

Her hand touched his thigh and stayed there. She gazed at the crowd eyeing them like a pack of hungry hyenas.

"They don't trust you either. And they hate me, because I carry the child of a pagan."

Philip grunted.

"Then they are fools! I'll have them flogged upon my return, if they so much as speak to you."

She smiled at his words, but it never reached her eyes.

"Promise me you will come back Philip. You know you never told me what _Rabb Al Aswad Warda_ means. As your wife I'd like to know these things."

He reached for her and took one of her golden curls in his hand, savoring its richness with a knot in his stomach.

"It means the Lord of the Black Rose." He told her and he saw the hurt in her eyes.

"Is that her name? Do you love her still?"

"I love no one as much as I love thee Marianne." He told her firmly and he meant it this time. A tear run down her cheek and he wiped it with his gloved hand. "you and our child." He added.

He knew he had to leave now else he wouldn't leave at all. His men were getting restless.

"A friend of mine is coming." He told her trying to hide his anxiousness. "His name is Rousse. We will go back to Lisbon with him. If he arrives before my return, seek him out. He is a blond guy with a stupid smile, but he grows on you, once you've come to know him."

She nodded, shaking her head, trying to hold back her sobs.

Philip turned to leave, but something stopped him. He reached for the pendant he was wearing on his neck and gave it to her. She stared at the beautiful ornament he had left on her hands.

"Wear it always. No Arab will ever give you problems."

Torn between his desire to stay with her and his duty Philip kicked the sides of the large warhorse, his hands tensing on the reigns. The animal neighed and then shot forward, Alim and his guards following suit behind him.

Marianne run after them for a while calling his name, but the horses opened up their pace to a full-force gallop and soon they were lost from her eyes.

The sun was full on the clear blue sky; these were the last hot days of August. The people would later say that the Saracens had left on a rather beautiful day.

That much was true.

Because gone they were, never to be seen alive again.

.

They passed through the village of Teignton where the natives informed them that a large force of riders and men on foot had passed by their village no more than a week back. That would be Hamid, thought Philip and ordered the men to pack and leave immediately. He was not going to wait for sunrise. They rode during the cool night and the first lights of morning found them at the first slopes of Devon.

The granite-boulder seeded terrain hurt his eyes, blurring his vision and it could seriously damage their horses, so he ordered the archers to continue on foot and they did the same guiding their horses by their reigns. It was a difficult journey, full of mishaps. Several men got hurt falling on the deadly rocks, but most escaped with only a few bruises and a case or two of broken bones. He sent the injured back to the horse-wagons, cursing Hamid for not giving him instructions as to how to reach the valley without risking losing more men.

"How many?" He asked Alim and his lieutenant spat on the ground, before answering him. The dust had clogged their lungs and the hot sun had burned their skin, as they were forced to walk under it for five straight hours.

"Four archers and one of mine, Marr the Berber, broke his elbow, nasty stuff; I had to send them back to the wagons. They will wait for us there."

Damn, that's not good, he thought.

Philip wiped the sweat from his face, using his headscarf and drank a generous dose of water from a flask he had on his destrier. He wished he was back in Lisbon; in fact he couldn't wait to finish this damn mission and return home with Marianne. This foreign land had changed his way of thinking entirely. The animal neighed irritated by something and he quickly examined the terrain around them. For a moment he'd thought he saw the familiar grey figure of the wolf moving between the boulders. Then the sun blinded him and he had to shade his eyes with a hand. But now he couldn't see anything out of place and pointed to his vanguard to move forward and see what the steep hill was hiding from them.

The guards disappeared down the slope.

.

One of them appeared a moment later and with hand signs explained to them that they had reached the valley.

"Move!" Philip ordered his men and they started climbing until they reached the top. The small valley appeared under their feet, no more than a hundred meters down from where they were standing.

A thick mist was hiding it and they could barely make out any details of the terrain, they were some small trees near the edges but nothing more could be seen from that distance.

Alim was staring at the clear sunny sky above their heads. He had a surly expression on his face.

"That is very strange, Alhamdulillah, I don't like this at all Al Salib." He told him and Philip noticed that many of his men were likeminded.

"Where is Hamid? That is what puzzles me more." He told him and turned to Bahir, his other lieutenant.

"Tell them to form a line. Cover the slope, aim for the valley. I don't want them to jump on us from that mist."

The archers placed their quivers at their sides and readied their bows. They had almost fifty arrows each and usually the horses carried them but they had to change their ways when they left the wagons behind. No one spoke aloud; they were all concentrating to catch any kind of sound coming the valley.

A minute passed. Then another.

Alim gave him a side look, he had sweat on his tanned forehead and the usually clear white of his eyes was filled with visible blood vessels.

"We have to go and check the damn place." He told him and he threw him a stern look.

"I know. Where in the seven Hells is Hamid? We told his man to wait us a couple of kilometers back. What had this fool do?"

Alim waived a fly off with his dagger. He didn't answer him.

Philip tried to calm his nerves down. It was getting hotter by the minute, the mail armor bit on his skin and his undergarment was as wet as if he had swam in a river.

Damn.

"You want me to go?" Alim proposed sensing his discomfort.

He looked at his guards, their faces burning from the heat, sweat all over their faces.

"Send three of your men. Tell them to have a good look and come back, no heroics."

Where had Hamid disappeared?

Something wasn't right.

.

"THERE!" one of his riders cried out pointing at the entrance of the small path leading to the valley.

Hamid turned and managed to see the figures of the men standing upright watching them. No more than a dozen he counted. Amongst them a man wearing the full armor of a Byzantine Cataphract, which worried him and he quickly scanned the surrounding area for signs of additional heavy cavalry but there were none and the possibility of a large force of them attacking the villagers was ludicrous at the least. That was a lone-wolf, he decided, watching the Knight disappearing towards the valley his men following him. He was a deserter probably; maybe even some kind of a fanatical pagan, in the business of hunting men, being in turn haunted himself by his personal demons, so far from his land.

He had to force them deeper into the valley and block the entrance, his logic advised him. It was a good plan; it was what they wanted from the start.

One thing was bothering him though. He had found another group of dead Saxons earlier. They too were badly burnt and like the first one they belonged to the town's guard. _These were the Earl's men_ , he thought, _what were they doing out here in the wilderness?_ _Had they come here on some kind of a mission? Was that damn infidel working on some scheme without them knowing about it?_ Many questions, but no answers. Hamid spat on the ground and he frowned heavily, weighting the current situation in his mind. Whatever was happening with the natives and the strange Knight, was obviously failing miserably. He turned to his men wearing a determined expression.

"Go after them." He gave the order and his footmen started moving rapidly towards the narrow path, with their axes at hand.

Hamid looked at the blinding sun above his head. _Maybe he didn't need the archers after all,_ he thought. Less than fifteen men was not a problem he couldn't handle on his own and if he pinned them down inside the small valley, he could easily wipe them out in a matter of minutes. That might even earn him a nice title. The last thought brought a wide grin on his dark-skinned face.

.

A strange mist awaited them. It was as thick as smoke and it agitated lightly as they passed through, their eyes and ears concentrating to every sound and every movement around them.

For a few moments nothing happened.

It was as if they had walked into an empty room. Then they saw the first armoured soldier appearing with a sword at hand. Behind him came the Black Knight with the rest of them.

.

Danger. Be prepared.

Philip had almost bitten off his tongue as he straighten up startled from the warning. Alim eyed him suspiciously, but he paid him little attention. He examined the valley under them trying to pierce the thick veil of that strange fog that shielded it. He had drawn his sword and he felt its handle's familiar warmth in his hand.

A man was coming towards them. He had shot out of the mist running wildly, as if the Old Red Cap himself was after him.

"Hold your arrows!" He barked to his men and started walking down the slope to intercept the man.

"What are you doing? Philip! Stay back!" Alim yelled at him, but he continued climbing down, the blood pumping in his veins. "Follow me. After him!" He heard him saying then.

It was one of the footmen Hamid had taken with him. Philip saw that he was holding his right shoulder as he closed in on him, jumping above rocks and dangerous deadly falls. His knees were hurting every time he landed on the hard ground but he kept his rhythm meeting the man midway.

"What happened!" he said to him, his voice ragged from all the hard running, but the man didn't slow down, he tried to pass him by as if he hadn't noticed him at all, so Philip grabbed him hard by his injured hand and pulled him back. With a heartbreaking yelp the man stopped and then bent and fell hard on his knees exhausted. Philip poked him with his blade on the chest. "What the hell happened?" he asked him again, his voice deadly serious.

The soldier gave him an incredulous look.

"Al Salib?"

"Yes. Where is Hamid?" he probed getting impatient.

"They were... no more than ten. We followed them into the valley, no more than ten minutes ago." The Saracen told him, drawing large breaths in between his words. It seemed as if he'd just run the Marathon.

"Followed them..." Philip looked at the mist looming towards them, not twenty meters from where they stood. He had the strangest notion that the damn thing was closing in on them. _No more than ten minutes_ , the man had said, but that was impossible because it meant that they missed Hamid when they passed from his position less than an hour ago. _How can anyone not see, seventy well armed, full-grown men?_ Something very strange was happening here.

"Where are they now?" he tried him again and when he got no answer, he realized that the man was staring at the ever nearing mist with a look of total terror in his eyes, paying him no attention at all. _Oh, for the love of the mighty Baal,_ he thought and then whatever was left of his calmness, slipped away. He shook him hard grabbing him by both shoulders and stooping he towered over him, yelling loudly in his face. "WHERE ARE MY MEN, GODDAMN IT!"

But the man's eyes were empty and there was no logic or coherence in them. No answer was going to come from him.

His words had echoed around the valley. Behind them, as if hidden in their echo, other sounds had emerged. First the screams came in a foreign language and then the unmistaken in his ears deadly music of battle. Axes slogging on shields, blades hitting blades or mail armor all mixed up together in a terrible buzz, which grew and grew until the whole valley was filled with it. The mist reached them rapidly, moving like it was a living thing and engulfed them in its grey embrace.

Philip couldn't see, he smelled sulfur and he realized that they were suddenly standing on a very strange, soft ground. A soil that looked a lot like... _fine sand_. His logic told him to get the hell out of there, but he instead examined the ground more carefully.

No, this was not just any sand. He kicked it with his leg and it created a cloud that lifted up covering his arms, face and torso, like powder. A grey powder as light as the air, it stayed around him creating the illusion of the morning mist.

Then it hit him, there was no _mist_.

The soil had literary turned to ash.

What the fuck have they gotten themselves into?

Move to the left.

A cold shiver run down his spine as the _mist_ started to clear gradually before his eyes.

Move. Danger.

He saw the men fighting with the brigands. They all wore the same armor as the soldier they had killed earlier and each one faced at least three or four of his footmen. The ground was strewn with bodies. Men were lying down gutted like pigs, their wounds still leaking blood. He blinked once. Twice. _This can't be_ , he thought. His logic urged him again, to get the hell out of that valley. Stubbornly he stayed his ground, absorbing as many of the slowly unveiling details around him as he could.

MOVE!

_There were no dead brigands amongst the bodies_ , he noticed surprised. That couldn't be right.

_NOW!_ The voice had almost torn his eardrums.

Forcing him at last to comply.

His hand swung the sword and beheaded the soldier that came out of the mist to attack him with an edged twin bladed war-axe. The head shot off the man's shoulders in a spout of red blood and disappeared into the mist. The man fell down, like a sack filled with rocks and lay still, in a growing pool of his own blood. He didn't give him a second glance, his mind was racing wildly.

_On one hand he didn't understand what exactly was happening_ , but that was not so big of a problem, he was a fighter not a thinker. On the other, he felt the cold fingers of fear gaining on him, his courage wavering, his mind already pressing him to retreat to safety, but he couldn't do it, he was not a scared boy anymore. For the first time in many years, he actually tasted fear.

And then he remembered.

Never again.

.

A younger Rousse stared him in the dark still waiting for his answer. Philip sighed and closed his tired eyes.

Whatever the cost, he'd told him.

.

Alim saw Philip getting swallowed up by the mist and he turned to look towards the men he'd left back on the top side of the valley. Bahir waved his hand at him.

"Wait twenty minutes." He shouted to him as loudly as he could. There was a buzz coming from all over them. A maddening sound that pierced his ears. "If you don't see us come out by then, fire away."

Bahir seemed startled by his orders. He signed him with his fingers, wanting further instructions. One volley? Two?

He shook his head, trying to calm his nerves. But he knew that he had to make sure nothing came out of that valley besides them. So he pulled one of his men back.

"Run and tell him to fire with everything he has. No aim, straight in the mist, arrow after arrow, I want the ground there to be like the back of a wild hedgehog."

The soldier went wide-eyed, but he had no time for this.

"RUN!" he barked at him.

He did.

(Median-time Kingdom)

.

A giant of a man with a shaved head and face and skin out of an Egyptian mural, chopped off the footman's limb with a sword so big, it must have weighted over ten kilos. The man yelped and tried to protect himself lifting his shield in front of him. The greatsword came down again like an axe. It crashed the shield, breaking his left arm in the process and threw him on the ground useless.

The giant, standing well over seven feet, turned and scanned the battlefield. His head and shoulders were above everyone else's. The men were a mingled mess around him. The clouds their feet were lifting from the ash-ridden ground, gave out the illusion that there was a grey mist surrounding them. It was almost as if they were not in the valley anymore. Nefer smiled showing teeth that better suited a horse. _That was not far from the truth_. He searched more carefully, so many faces, he couldn't make them out. He grabbed one of them by the collar and shoved him a couple of times with the hilt of his sword breaking his noise. He checked his face. No. His large fingers wrapped around the poor man's skull like tentacles. He pressed until he heard the cracking sound.

.

Philip saw the giant freak crush the footman's skull with his bare hand and he felt his stomach turn.

Behind you. Turn now!

The _Wolf's Cry_ hissed in his head.

He turned to face a man wearing that same mail hauberk, they were all wearing. The man had a longsword in his right hand and attempted to strike at him aiming for his chest. He blocked him using his shield and then gave him a swipe, cutting him under his chest. Blood discharged from the wound, but the man didn't slow down.

_What is it, with these guys?_ He thought as he sidestepped and parried with him. He saw Alim approaching out the corner of his eye, his elite guards close behind him. He counted only six men. They had already lost more people. He felt his anger rising and kneeling he avoided one more hit from his opponent. The _Wolf's Cry_ turned scorching hot in his hand, hurting him, but he left the matter aside. He stroked at the exposed legs of the man and opened them both up above the knees. The brigand buckled and fell in front of him on his injured limbs. His mouth opened in an attempt, to cry – curse... whatever, Philip left him no time for either as he stepped forward quickly and plunged his blade at his face, finding his open oral cavity. It submerged deep inside, slashing and cutting until it exited from the back of his head, severing his spine. The man's pupils disappeared and his body relaxed suddenly. He was dead.

.

Bahir saw the strange mist growing before his eyes. He was a hard man, raised in the desert and there was nothing in this world that could scare him, but this _thing_ that was coming quickly towards them, was not of this world. He was sure of that. One of his archers touched his arm lightly to draw his attention.

"What!" He barked at him more scared than he liked to admit.

"It's been more than twenty minutes, my lord." The man said, eyeing the coming mist worried. Bahir clenched his jaw.

Damn. No point delaying the inevitable.

"Fire away." He ordered them. "Don't stop until your quivers are empty."

.

(Median-time Kingdom)

.

"You have to get out Philip! We don't have time." Alim yelled at him.

"I am not going anywhere. They are no more than a dozen. We can take them."

"We can't take them Al Salib. Not in here. They are butchering us. Hamid is nowhere to be found and his men all but perished."

"Not in here? What the hell are you saying?"

Alim grabbed his arm and forced him to look around them.

The sun was hiding fast, behind the ashen clouds, the place around them was turning darker with every passing second. _It is midday,_ he thought, as he stared at the strange phenomenon unfolding before his eyes, _how is this possible?_

"We must get out of this hellish place now!" he heard his lieutenant yelling at the top of his lungs and then the arrows came.

.

' _That was not a room for it had no walls to define it. It was neither a hall nor a courtyard, for no man had laid a hand to construct it. But it was not an open field also, because the black sky above them had no stars or even the moon. The sky was empty; bare as bare was this whole place. The only things existing, were the eighteen marble statues of the armored warriors, arranged in a long uneven line, each standing in a different pose, some kneeling and others still holding their weapons in their stretched hands and behind them far enough thus making it difficult to distinguish any noticeable details stood the big stone throne. The ground consisted of this powder-like grey ash that reached their ankles and created clouds of 'dust' as they moved through it. The ashen terrain gave out a strange illumination, as much as the amount of light that passes through a thick linen cloth. It made their shadows seem longer, their faces contorted. It was an alien place, as much inhuman as it was ungodly. There was no life in this place. It was a different world altogether._

This world was dead.'

.

.

The weapon-bearer's face couldn't mask his inner turmoil. His voice came out hoarse, borderline scared. The demon pitied him.

" _He will try to get you out.' Dar'Ible said glancing at the man he'd created although of course that would never happen. 'and you can help him once he's outside. We'll work together just like we did in the past."_

" _He will not remember us. Everything will be different." The man said and he knew what he meant. He was afraid of him after all, of what he was and couldn't bring himself to trust him. Then again, he thought returning his stare on that merging of Realms the time-demon had created, he couldn't blame him for that._

He knew something the man didn't after all. The only way for him to get what he wanted was to sacrifice the soul of the boy. A detail he conveniently left out when he'd explained him his plan.

Dar'Ible grinned thinking the whole thing was a little ironic. These were his memories after all. His Keep, his friends.

" _You can protect the boy's line.' he relented giving Draco something he could live with and added 'My friend will need time in order to figure everything out."_

" _What if he doesn't?"_

Of course he will, the demon thought wanting to explain him why, but decided he liked them better not knowing. Less boring, more real. Still the weapon-bearer had a point and after a small thoughtful pause he added.

" _Then I will just have to try again."_

.

(Three days later.)

.

The woman with the red hair had stopped walking and fell behind of the group. She stood there frozen staring blankly, her lips the only part of her face that showed some life. Rousse realized that she was missing from their group and returned to her side. He puzzled with her vacant expression and hovered over her to catch the words coming off her mouth. She was speaking so low, that at first he couldn't grasp what she was saying, but as he consecrated more blocking the noises of the busy streets of Exeter from his mind, he heard her.

"The chain has been broken." The witch was saying, her voice losing her youthful tone, becoming as ancient now as herself was and he found that strangely arousing, in a disturbing way. It caressed his ears like a scary purring. "Something is gone missing. There is a hole in this world."

"Aset." He touched her lightly on the shoulder, but she kept looking through him, as if he was not there."What are you seeing darling?"

She kept on speaking without answering him and he realized with a shiver that run down his spine, that in some bizarre manner, she was actually _talking_ to someone else.

"This chain has been broken. The names kept hidden, gone. Forgotten. Someone is hiding from this time, walking in the _'between kingdoms_ '. There is a hole in this world, it came through it and now it is gone. It bargained with the names, concealed its nature in a skin of man. I looked..."

"Aset! Aset damn it, snap out of it!" He yelled, but it was of no use she was in some kind of a trance. Worried Rousse shook her hard but she kept going, the words falling from her lips in a monotone.

"... I have seen it. I glimpsed our ancient homeland through it. This time bend itself, these records have been altered, the _'Keeper of Names'_ deceived. A child of the other Realms walked among us. It's the Time-Bender's fault. It set it free but it must not be here. This reality is rapped. Distorted. Changed."

Her voice seized suddenly. People had gathered around them, murmuring in disgust, their accusatory glares piercing their skins. Rousse didn't allow their hostility to unnerve him; He noticed a golden-haired girl detach herself from the crowd and walking with uncertain feet towards them. Her face was fair, but her look was worried and he searched his face with a strange intensity as if she was trying to determine if she knew him or not. He realized who she was and nodded at her with his hand. The veil of uncertainty was lifted from her pretty face and she started coming towards them. Rousse returned his attention to Aset, who showed signs of recovery and spoke to her in a gentle manner, carefully caressing with the back of his right hand, the side of her face.

"Aset, talk to me. What did you see, what happened?"

The witch stared at the people around them, with a surprised look on her face. She gave him a small grin. Her eyes sparkled teasingly, before becoming serious again. Then she answered him in a clear voice, but her words were like daggers, ripping at his soul and he barely managed to keep himself upright.

"There is nothing here for you Rousse." She said and then although he knew what she meant, she added staring straight into his eyes. "He's gone."

From somewhere behind him, a woman's clamor was heard; it was a heartbreaking agonizing sound that pierced his ears and finally broke his will.

.

(Median-time Kingdom)

.

The blood from the severed artery sprayed on him painting his mail shirt and he turned just in time to avoid the falling guard. The Saracen landed on the ash-ridden ground and he jumped over him as he assailed his slayer. The man stepped back defending himself and Philip noticed that he had only one good arm. The other one was cut off and he could see the bone sticking out from the open wound.

Un-fucking-believable.

The soldier came at him from the side and he turned avoiding him landing a blow on his back that slashed through his armor. Fresh blood splashed on him and he had to cover his eyes to avoid it. He watched him as he stumbled to a couple of feet from him and then fell headlong on the ground.

Good riddance.

"I can't find the way out." Alim said, grimacing from the pain. He had covered him with his body when the first volley of arrows had come killing friends and foe alike. Mostly friends, he thought bitterly. The loyal man had gotten two of them on his back, the second almost piercing his left lung. Then the sun was lost and they were left to fight in this strange place that he by now knew, was not the same valley they had come down to. If they were even in a valley anymore. A cry was heard from somewhere afar. Another man dying. Was it one of their own? He couldn't tell. He used the sleeve of his ruined shirt to wipe some of the blood off his face, noticing that his hands were also painted black with it.

"How many have we killed?" he asked Alim and the man stared at him as if he had gone mad.

"Al Salib." The Saracen said to him and Philip saw a droplet of blood running down the side of his mouth and down his collar. That's not good, he thought. "We are not fighting men here. We cannot win this one—" He cut him off raising his hand.

"No more of that! They are men. MEN! Alim. They bleed, they fall and they stay dead. We killed some of them at least. I intent to kill the rest. They were no more than a dozen. That is what everybody had said."

"They said also between ten and fifty."

"Most said ten." He insisted and Alim shook his head showing his disapproval.

"What if they are a score? What if they are forty or fifty Philip? What will you do then?"

"I won't stay still waiting for a blade to cut me down. Can you point me to the way out? No. I am sticking with my own plan then. I've killed six. You've gotten another two. That means, in the worst scenario, another four or less."

"Or twenty-four or less."

He pointed him to the emptiness surrounding them. Even the sounds had ceased.

"You know what this means?" he asked him and the old Saracen let out a sigh of pain and despair.

"Our men are dead?" he was bitter but accepting at the same time, and Philip admired his spirit. The loss of their men pained his own heart also, but he summoned his courage and steadied his voice to answer him.

"There are not many of them left." He said to him and the Arab seemed startled by the certainty in his words. "They would be far noisier if they were more." He explained patiently. "These mail armors they are all wearing, rattle worse than a cow's bell. We would have heard them from a mile away."

The sword flashed in his hand, its green light illuminating the place at a long distance around them. It was like they were in a desert, a bizarre flat desert of ashes, scattered with dead bodies. His breath caught for a second as he stared at the gruesome sight. The ground was filled with arrows. They covered it in a straight line, some of the men caught inside that lethal zone of fire had as many as ten or more on their torn bodies. He tasted bile in his mouth and he cleared his throat to escape the foul taste. It's a killing ground, he thought. They had fallen in a hellish trap and some kind of sorcery was involved for sure. He cursed the Earl in his mind. He knew, damn him, the bastard knew all along and didn't warn them. _Oh, he may have muttered something about demons, but nothing even resembling this... hell._ A low growl escaped his lips and his rage returned fueling his resolve.

The sword glowed in his hand one more time; it turned the darkness into day for a couple of moments. He saw them moving blacker than the night, like giant cockroaches. Wearing their battle-worn black hauberks, carrying swords and bows. He counted them before the light went out and they became no more than distant shadows; and when the ground under his feet started giving that strange low illumination again, he grinned. He had counted five of them. Three carrying longswords and two more with bows. He turned to Alim and grabbing him by the arm, drew him closer.

"Can you use a bow?" he asked him.

The man's eyes held deadly intent.

"How many shots?"

"The two with bows concern me the most, the other three I can take care for myself. That is the last of them Alim. We got 'em ruffians."

The Arab searched and found a bow on a dead Saracen and armed himself, he then picked several arrows from the ground around him.

"I can manage a couple of good shots. My back is hurting me like hell. They better hurry." He said and Philip grunted as he heard the soldiers closing in on them. They were drawn by the light like jackals, he thought angrily.

"They are coming already."

Alim fall back several feet and kneeled in a firing position.

"It is the strangest thing." He heard him murmuring at his back.

"What is?"

"That was one of Bahir's men. The Berber, I recognized his bow. I could swear on my mother's grave, I left him standing up the hill before I came after you. It is like the damn mist expanded somehow and swallowed the whole mountain. It even made time pass faster or something; these arrows came far too early. But these things can't really happen, can they?"

"Maybe they can. A friend did try to warn me about magic, before we came here."

"Then they killed everyone Al Salib and that is fucked up."

Philip heard the hissing of an arrow passing over his head.

"Not everyone." He answered him and started running towards the shadows that had reached them, their armour reflecting the dim-light coming from the ground. They were barely visible, but he could see them just enough.

_Shield head. Low left hit._ The sword whispered.

He did and the dagger coming at him was pinned on his shield, he left it there and stroked low cutting off a soldier's leg as he passed by him. He didn't stop running and he reached the archer in two strides. He had another arrow in and had just started pulling at the bowstring, the moment he saw him appearing in front of him.

It was a close one.

Duck now!

He plunged for the ground and an arrow hissed by his spot coming from behind missing him for an inch. It nailed the archer squarely on his chest piercing through armor and flesh, burying in all the way to its fletchings and flew him backwards.

_Damn. That was too close_ ; he thought and jumped on his feet. He pulled the dagger from his shield and placed it on his waistband. A yowl came from the wilderness that extended in front of him as far as his eye could see. It was like a wind, starting as a light breeze and then picking up speed ever strengthening. But it was not a senseless yell, even if it grew to a vague high ado, hurting his ears; it held meaning and words inside. He could discern them, picking up the familiar ones here and there. These were names, he realized with surprise, been voiced in rapid succession male and female, Moorish, Frankish, Danish and many more in unknown tongues, by many thousands voices that were screaming in unison.

_What in the seven Hells is happening?_ He wondered silently, scanning the surrounding area for the other ruffians.

As sudden as it had started the yelling stopped. The only things he could now hear were the moaning of the injured soldier, not so far from him and a rhythmic sonorous sound, like the heavy thud of feet when hitting the ground, approaching him.

Be prepared.

He turned to the sound and he saw the giant coming towards him, wielding that enormous sword. Adrenalin shot through his veins and he jumped back to avoid a mighty blow that could easily have broken him in two. The huge blade came again and he barely dodged another killing blow with his shield. With a cracking sound the shield's handle broke and fell from his hand.

Damn.

He kicked the giant's leg right at the knee and then slashed aiming for his head. He got him, chopping of a large piece of flesh and leaving a gaping red hole on his right cheek. The giant-man touched the wound with his free hand and stared at the blood that immediately covered his fingers. Then with a deep frown, his eyes centered on him angrily. He let a guttural sound slip from his throat and he lifted his greatsword pointing its blade to his chest. Philip plastered a mocking smile on his face.

"Do you wish to retreat?" He asked him and the giant replied him with an angry grunt, followed by a swipe of his sword that tore a piece of his armor, cutting him high on the right shoulder. He jumped back and dodged the next blow. The blades clashed and he almost lost the grip of his weapon. Damn. He's strong, he thought. The giant advanced, closing the distance between them and attacked him again growling, his eyes full of hatred.

Philip parried with him, ever retreating further inside what he assumed was still the valley. Another arrow fired from Alim plunged itself on the giant's left thigh, but the brute continued his attacks without even noticing it. Philip unsheathed the dagger from his waistband and switched hands with his sword, preparing himself to strike at him from closer quarters. He despised the idea, but he just couldn't reach the seven-footed freak and he already felt his limbs heavier from the exertion. The giant stroke at him again but this time he didn't retreat, instead he stepped aside and the blade missed him, but the force of the blow brought the giant-freak at arm's length. He seized his opening.

He tossed him the dagger using all his dexterity.

He was too close to miss. The sharp blade wedged in to the hilt at the left side of his neck. Wasting no time, he passed the sword to his right hand and went in for the kill. The giant moaned, with blood spurting from his mouth and the cut on his cheek. Philip jumped at him as the freak was falling to his knees and using an enormous thigh as leverage, he leaped over him to deliver a blow at the top of his head. A devastating blow. His blade cut through skin and bone and separated the top side of the giant's skull, creating a small bloodied cup that flown several feet away leaving a splatter of blood, bone and large pieces of brain in its trail.

Philip landed on his feet breathing heavily and watched in awe as the seven-footed beast of a man, his mouth opening and closing in a muted cry, trembled and fell, his sword still swinging at an invisible target.

Good riddance, he thought.

An ominous silence fell on the poorly-lit place. He searched the area around him but found nothing. Is it over? He formed the question in his mind not really expecting an answer and he was surprised when he got one.

He says we shouldn't be here.

"What the hell are you saying?"

This is as far as we can protect.

Protect what?

Philip looked around him alarmed but he saw nothing but dead bodies and more dark than light. He started walking back towards the edge of the valley, but after a couple of steps he stopped puzzled. He couldn't orientate in that damn place at all.

"Alim!" he said aloud, hoping the older warrior was still alive, but no answer came. He tried again without any success.

Damn. That can't be good.

He tried not to panic but the thought that he could be trapped in this hellish place, send shivers down his spine.

No.Way.In.Hell.

There must be a way out, he thought, looking around him again, feeling sweat wetting his forehead.

_I'll walk on a straight line_. _Sooner or later the valley will end or I could reach the hills on the other side._ Even if it'd taken him a day's walk, he would eventually come out of this damn place. What say you? He asked the sword and it glowed in his hand in what he hoped was a yes.

So he started walking. His feet shuffled at the ash underneath and small clouds soon gathered around them half covering him. Somewhere afar, he started seeing an opening or maybe it was a better lit place, he couldn't tell for sure. He headed that way, using it as a direction point, stubbornly putting one foot in front of the other, his lips forming a thin determined line.

The illuminated place drew nearer.

.

Alim killed him shooting an arrow right through his right eye. The soldier fell and his friend came at him wielding a longsword. He got rid of his bow and unsheathed his saif. The pain from his wounds was gnawing at him draining his strength but he clenched his fingers on the handle.

"Come on." He said through his teeth. The soldier reached him and came at him with a right slash. He dodged the blow, but the shining blade of a knife coming at him from the left froze his blood. He trapped his opponents arm with his left and kicked him hard on the leg, breaking his left ankle. A pained cry escaped the man's lips and he tried to hit him with his sword but he was too close and he managed to stop him. They just stood there facing each other in what looked a lot like a lovers embrace.

Alim felt a burning pain at his ribs and black spots appeared before his eyes. He waived them off and hit the soldier again with a right elbow on the face. The man cried in pain and fell back. He followed cutting him on his sword arm, but the ruffian managed to hold on to the weapon. Then Alim was out of breath. He stopped, feeling his head heavy. He couldn't move his left hand and when he checked it, he realized that the hilt of the knife was sticking out of his ribcage. He could feel his blood running down inside his armor. He grabbed the handle and pulled it out of him, almost fainting in the process. Fresh blood gushed out of his wound and he could feel that his insides had been torn up very badly.

The man opposing him gathered himself, ready to charge at him again and Alim managed to form a half-smile in his face. He neared him dragging his leg. He was not in a much better shape than him.

The first swipe was a testing one and Alim dodged it easily without moving his feet. The man cursed his mother in the English tongue and then he came again, with full force this time. Alim moved forward to meet him, surprising the brigand. His blade moved faster and made contact with the man's hand in midair, he slashed without thinking, chopping it off above the wrist. It fell on the ground between them, its fingers still holding tight at the longsword.

"This is yours."Alim told him in Arabic and ripped his throat open with his own knife.

The man was dead before he hit the ground.

Alim knelt beside him, with his strength diminishing with every passing second and checked his gaping wound. He watched the blood leaving a trail on his armor and he sighed. A sharp pain from his back reminded him of the arrow-points he still had embedded in his flesh. _Too many wounds this time, old friend,_ he thought. He was too tired to stand up again. His eyelids became heavier and he felt an overwhelming need to sleep. _It was a good ride, Alhamdulillah_ , he thought and before the eternal darkness engulfed him in its embrace, he heard someone calling his name.

.

It seemed as if the stone soldiers were staring at him. They were so well carved, their expressions so life-like, that for a moment he considered the possibility that they were real people frozen in time, inside a casing of stone. But when he touched one of them to be sure, he felt nothing but the cold stone underneath. He walked amongst them never at ease, with his sword at the ready, as the strangely illuminated place was giving him the chills. Philip had seen this place many times in the dreams he'd had since he was a young boy. He remembered the scary statues and the throne of stone, he now approached. Was he dreaming again? Was that nothing but another nightmare and he would soon wake up in his bed, finding Marianne laughing beside him? The thought of his wife saddened his heart and fought against his emotions. He wanted out of this place. This was surely a dream. But then he could feel his shoulder-wound paining him, he could feel it bleeding, wetting his undershirt. He was tired and thirsty and in a foul mood. If this was a damn dream then it was as close to the real thing as dreams come.

.

You shouldn't be here.

The voice had interrupted his pondering. It shattered the quietness, like the rattle of heavy chains inside an empty dungeon, a voice coming from the deepest wells of hell. He almost lost his nerve. A hooded man wearing a monk's rob, had appeared standing, next to the throne of stone. Was he always there hiding behind the throne? Philip wondered as he pointed his sword at him.

"Who the hell are you?"

The man, his face concealed by the hood, opened his arms as if presenting himself. Philip was not amused and his eyes narrowed menacingly.

"Pray tell me you hadn't had anything with all this." He threatened him.

He laughed at his words. It was a taunting unpleasant laugh that made his blood boil with anger. He measured the distance between them, a good ten feet; he could reach him in seconds.

A deal was made, true.

Philip stopped his move and stared at him waiting.

I keep what I touched.

Return the rest.

Give this world a sum that equals... decies centum in years.

"What are you saying? Who are you?" he asked him trying to sound certain, but an uncanny feeling crept up on him. The man, with his face still concealed by the hood and the dark crimson he now noticed, colored robs falling awkwardly on him as if he had no mass underneath, continued in his monologue.

A lie was forged, true. This tale shall never be revealed.

Philip made a step towards him.

"What did you do?" He asked in a growl.

The stranger placed his hand on the throne of stone. He remained motionless for a moment and then he answered but he wasn't talking to him.

You shouldn't be here. This realm is mine.

Blackness fell over him and Philip collapsed on that ashen ground.

.

(A valley in Devon, 3 hours later.)

The giant fell hard on the ground emptying the insides of his brain on the sunburned grass. Men were screaming as the flames were consuming their fleshes, melting skin and metal-armor together, forming a disgusting, brownish and undefined blend. A knight wearing the coal-black full-armor of a Cataphract, was leading the charge, slaughtering men right and left, using two identical, doubled edged longswords, with hilts as black as his armor.

.

We must protect.

Fill the found emptiness.

Make the nothing into something and continue.

.

A terrible pain ripped through him. A strangely familiar pain. Spasms ravaged his body from head to toe and he almost fainted. There was energy in this pain, it poured into his veins dissolving his stale dead blood. He cried out miserably and clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white, unable to conceal his agony. A blinding green light shaded the sunlight. He shielded his eyes to protect them and heard in his excruciating pain the sword's voice in his mind.

.

Let it be like one.

Let us enter and animate this shell.

Let us escape in this form.

It is already been said; one sword will disagree.

If the Lord of Ashes touches the Aredue

One sword shall be free.

.

Then the pain was gone. Slowly he stood upright and faced the imposing figure of a Black Night. His armor was stained with blood and from the eyeholes of his helmet a strangely familiar emptiness stared back at him.

"You shall not meddle in this! You shouldn't be here. Leave this place. _You can't be a part of this!_ " the Knight told him angrily, his voice dragging as if coming from a faraway place.

He looked around them. There was no one left standing. The faces of the men seemed vaguely familiar but he couldn't place them. _What was he doing here, in this place? Who were these men?_ His mind was blank as if he'd just been born. He turned his attention on the Knight. _Had he done this?_ He saw him preparing an attack on him and instincts he didn't remember to possess moved him into action. The Knight's words echoed in his ears as he covered the distance between them in the blink of an eye.

This is not your fight!

.

He reached him in an instant and he sensed his startle at his haste. Then the blade of his sword slashed through the knight's armor and he heard him growling like a wounded animal. A deep wound had appeared on his chest, right where his blade had cut him.

The knight turned and attempted to hit him using both his swords. He saw his intention and retaliated using steel against steel. The strange sword he held in his hand met both blades midair and chopped them off as if they were made out of wood connecting with the knight at full force. One of the broken blades tore his cheek and his mouth filled with blood but it didn't bother him. His sword-point had torn the Knight's jugular vein and blood spurted out in fat jets mixing with that of his victims, on his already blood-stained breastplate. It was over.

"Don't tell me what I can't do." He told him.

With a choke-chained groan, the dark warrior collapsed on the ground.

_No Danger,_ said a voice in his head or maybe it was just him. He smiled and tasted the blood in his mouth; these were things he remembered he realized pleasantly surprised, the fights, the struggle and the killings. He touched the wound on his face with his hand, thinking how exhilarating it was being able to feel pain again.

Free.

The thought came to him suddenly. A shocking revelation. He was free at last. He looked at the sword in his hand, examined the carved animal head on its hilt and grimaced.

_You need us,_ said the voice in a worried tone.

Now that was not his head. That was the strange weapon talking to him. He thought about it for a while. _No,_ he decided, _I don't need anyone_. He was presented with an opportunity he shouldn't miss here.

You cannot be separated from us.

And he didn't like being told what to do. He never obeyed any rules. That was the problem in the first place.

DON'T DO THIS!

Oh but I will.

He threw the strangely ornamented weapon on the ground among the dead bodies. Then he turned his back and walked away.

He reached the edge of the valley and started climbing fast up the slope of the hill with the sun burning bright over his head.

After a few minutes he was gone.

.

(Median Kingdom)

It was the strangest dream. Philip could see and feel, but he couldn't move. He couldn't speak, but he was still breathing, was still bleeding. He could see the valley, the sun shining bright over the field. He could see his friends laying there, their bodies battered and horribly disfigured, dead. He could even see himself leaving the bloody field. It was the strangest dream. Then the voices came, speaking the names one after another without missing a beat, in a symphony of screams that tormented his ears and attacked his sanity. He prayed in vain for oblivion to end his misery, but there were no gods in this place, or time for that matter.

This place was dead.

.

-

' _Draco was beside himself, the scarred weapon-bearer on his side giving him a look of silent disapproval as well._

" _He's gone!" and then again as if he hadn't heard him the first time. "That rotten bastard is gone!"_

Dar'Ible nodded keeping his face neutral.

" _He'll come around."_

" _He's an idiot! It'll take him forever to realize what he's got to do!"_

" _I can wait." He told him simply, resisting the urge to make him disappear again. Unmake him._

Draco started laughing.

" _Are you certain about this?' He gave him another nod hopping to put a lid on his whining. But the dead warrior had one more thing to add. 'Cause forever is a mighty long time Dar'Ible."_

And of course that damn accursed fool was right.'

.

(Four days later)

.

The fires were leaping high as if trying to reach the blue sky. They were burning the bodies in three large piles. Six and ninety dead Saracens and eighteen raiders or whatever their black souls were. Rousse had never seen such carnage in his life. More than half of the men were badly burned beyond recognition, save for their arms and a large majority of the rest had fallen to their death by arrows. _What horror had turned grown men against each other? What had made the archers fire against their own?_ Many questions were puzzling his mind. The news that the raiders had been slain had excited the people of Exeter and some of them had come to help with the disposal of the dead, but the prize for that victory was grave.

He had to restrain the girl, to stop her from coming with them. She had fought with him like a tigress until he managed to subdue her and his heart ached for her misfortune. _She carried his child_ , the thought pierced his mind and suddenly tasting bile in his mouth, he turned his eyes from the rotten smell and the flames that were consuming the fleshes of the men that had come to this land with his only real friend in this world to fight the Devil, only to meet their own doom. That was what the people were saying anyway.

His eyes fell on the sword the Asian had given to Philip. The head of the wolf stared back at him, its red ruby eyes locked on his and he felt a chilly feeling creep up his spine. He hadn't found his body. Only that demon-spawned weapon dropped in a pool of dry blood. He wrapped it up in a blanket to take it with him. Walking back to where they had left their horses, he met Aset's glare with a forced grin.

"You look awful, are you injured?" She asked him.

"Beyond measure I fear." He said to her earnestly and the witch nodded sensing his pain. Half-way from the town she prompted him on another matter.

"What will happen to the girl?"

"Philip wrote me on the matter not over a month now. She will take his title and his lands and the gold he has gained from the governor as his legal wife."

"They will never accept a Christian woman living alone amongst them." She told him keeping her voice low, as they were traveling with a Moorish escort.

"They will accept his wife and his child." He said in a certain tone. But the witch was always closer to the truth than him and after considering it, he let a loud sigh escape his lips. "Else I will help them move to the Frankish lands." He added a little annoyed at that possibility.

The witch said nothing more until they reached the walls of the castle.

.

November 970 AD,

Constantinople.

.

Nesafer's right-hand, a young boy called Afanos, brought them two goblets of honeyed wine and immediately retired leaving them again alone with him. The old Magistrate examined for a few moments Rousse's face and then with a half green on his own face said to him.

"I already have an apprentice. Why would I do with another one? The _'Lodge'_ will continue even without your assistance young man."

"I don't want just to be your apprentice; I want to learn from you and from everyone in your society. The letter you have in your hand proves I gather of my importance. Besides I know too much already what will you do? You can't just kill me."

The old man's eyes sparkled at that and Rousse laughed.

"You can't be serious."

Nesafer cracked a small smile.

"Of course not, we will consider your request Rousse." He told him in a polite manner and turned to face the Asian, who had kept himself out of their conversation until that moment. "Where is the other sword?" he asked him straight away.

"I left it where it belonged." Xe answered him.

The Magistrate's eyes narrowed suspiciously hearing his words.

"Why not with you or here in this place with us. Surely you must agree that we are the _logical_ choice. As keepers of knowledge we could learn so much from a _'Living Sword'_ , perhaps you should reconsider."

"The sword stays there. The scrolls were wrong, it is not what you thought it was and I don't trust you anymore. I think you've lied to me Archmagister. Your monk never mentioned that Eadwig had made a deal, you've heard him yourself the other day;" Xe grimaced showing his disgust and then he added. "I should have gone in his place."

"There was no deal; the Earl probably lost his mind. Your _'weapon-Bearer'_ did well. He stopped him." Nesafer said.

Xe stared in his eyes for a long moment.

"Did he?"

Nesafer kept his stare steady. His voice was indifferent, devoid of passion.

"Of course he did." He lied.

__

"Do you still wish to remain?" Xe asked the young man and Rousse with a last stare at the exotic female that had escorted them in their journey answered that he did.

"At least for a few months and then I'll return to help Marianne with adjusting. You heard the man Xe, I can't see a long future for myself in this place." He added.

The Asian shook his head right and left, a grimace of disbelief marring his wrinkled face.

"When a man attempts to predict his own future, he usually makes a fool of himself."

Rousse laughed at his words.

"I can't believe I'm saying this but I am going to miss you old man" He finally said sincerely nodding for Aset to come near them. She approached under the disapproving stare of the Asian who for whatever peculiar reason, Rousse just couldn't for the life of him understand, had taken an intense dislike of her. "How would you like us to stay here for a while?" Rousse asked her forgetting the mulish Asian and the witch replied without a second thought that she would like it very much.

_There you go,_ he thought planting a noisy kiss on her lips, _that's my girl._
February 971 AD,

The town of Tergeste,

Holy Roman Empire.

.

The man was following him for the past ten days. He could sense his ever-there presence waiting for him to come out of the docks where he stayed hidden during the days. He didn't mind the cold of the winter nights. The cold was a reminder of his freedom and he loved it especially the snow. He could stand for hours and just watch it covering his arms and body. Melting on his warm skin.

Every day was a new sensation for him, a new experience and he wanted to taste them all. It was like he was empty inside and he needed to fill this void, perhaps even that was his sole purpose in this world. Because he couldn't recall anything else. Nothing. Like he wasn't one of the people walking the cities he'd visited in his travels. But he was learning watching them. He was learning and could tell when something was amiss. Like that creature following him.

It wasn't like the other people.

He had found him again. He could hear him nearing silently like a predator, in search of his next prey. He stopped in a dark alley and waited for him to reach him. It didn't take that long. His mysterious stalker fell on him grabbing his shoulders with his hands. He felt his hard nails plow at his skin, sharp teeth piercing at the artery on his neck. His blood flew out of his wound and the creature drank it making loud slurping sounds, its thirst immense. The experience was intoxicating and he closed his eyes to savor the whole ordeal, but after a while the creature let go of him and he fell on the hard ground. He was not satisfied. Slowly he stood up and looked for his stalker. He found him further down in the alley walking in the shadows, like a creature of the night. He went after him careful not to make any noise. He'd made but ten steps when his strange stalker/attacker turned and still hidden in the shadows looked at him. His voice a mixture of Italian and gothic ended the silence around them.

"How can you still be alive?" The man asked him.

"How can you not be?"

His own question had puzzled the creature. He seemed to think for a while, his face a mask, devoid of any emotions. It didn't matter to him, his mind was made up.

"What are you?" The man asked him again as he approached him, standing now so close he could see his eyes shine in the moonlight. The eyes of the dead.

"I am like you." He lied and went for his neck. Oh, he'd fought him hard, tearing his clothes with his nails but he was much stronger. He ripped the dry skin of his neck with his own teeth and tasted its cool black blood, feeling it surprisingly burning like lava in his veins. He drank deeply hearing his own heart beating wildly in his chest until the creature stopped struggling and relaxed as lifeless as a rag doll in his hands.

Then he sat on the ground strangely tired all of a sudden next to the dead creature, and stared blankly at the dirty wall of a house across him. There was a lizard, another coldblooded creature, on that wall. It paused briefly examining his moves with its tiny forked tongue tasting the air and seeming unsatisfied with whatever it found there, it run quickly on the filthy surface and disappeared inside an unseen crack. _Gone never to be seen again_ , he thought, a half smile on his handsome face.

But then something unexpected happened, the body that was carrying him, started to die.

That wasn't a pleasant experience. He fought it willing his limbs to move, his heart to keep pumping blood, even avoiding falling asleep in order to remain vigilant but after two days of hard fight he realized he couldn't win this one and gave up. Surprised, bitter and in terrible pain he laid under his favorite bridge waiting for the body he had become so fond of to die. The thought of perishing along with it seemed absurd to him although he had nothing to back it up. He just knew.

The body did die during the third day.

A strange dream came to him when he fainted. He was inside a big castle along with two men he hadn't seen before. They were playing a game of cards gathered around a sturdy wooden table. The men were talking to him but he couldn't understand what they were saying and he had this strange impression that there was someone else there. Someone hidden in the shadows, silently watching them from afar. It was a strange dream or a nightmare that puzzled him and kept him occupied until during that same night in a bizarre twist of events his body came to life again. But it didn't return exactly the same. It had inherited from its spell with death a number of very strange talents and needs one of which was -or so he thought at the time- the ability to hear the voice of a creature it called itself -of all the weird fucking things- a living sword. An extremely annoying creature as he was soon to find out.

That alone ruined this whole ordeal for him.

June 986 AD,

Anjou France.

.

The blond boy kicked the sides of his stallion and the big horse galloped towards his family's estate. He passed by two riders bearing the coat of arms of Anjou that were escorting a closed four-horsed wagon, answering their severe glares with a wide defiant grin and continued at full speed until he reached their stables. He dismounted with a svelte jump and run past their stable-master who yelled on his back.

"Young man what did I tell you? Never ride the destrier you are too young!"

"I like it best Geoffrey, sorry!" he yelled back at him without looking, still running towards the stairs of the estate.

He climbed the stairs two-at-a-time and entered the big double doors, then went straight through the luxurious central hall towards the door that led to the gardens. A maid run after him cursing at the mess he created, but he was too quick for her. When he reached the gardens he drank two handfuls of water from a big fountain and sat down to catch his breath. Happiness set on his fair features, his jade green eyes sparkling with joy. The look on young Lady Eleanor's face, as he rode through at full speed interrupting her morning walk, had been priceless. He could still hear her lovely voice screaming his name, as she recognized him. She was screaming from fear, his mind told him, but he dismissed the thought as irrelevant. There was hidden passion in that maiden's voice; he was young but no fool. He had seen her staring at him during Sunday's mass. Not that he wasn't also checking at her feminine curves that low cut dresses she kept wearing couldn't conceal from his preying eyes. A noise coming from the garden door interrupted his carnal thoughts.

A woman was standing there. She was dressed in a strange garment that covered her from head to toe and she wore a thin veil that left only her exotic black eyes uncovered. His breath caught in his chest. A number of thoughts came rushing in, one after another. These were eastern eyes. A real flesh and bone Saracen here in this house. One of his father's people. And when the woman with a move full of grace removed the veil from her face, he blushed.

Damn, she's beautiful.

Her voice was a melody of sounds and emotions.

"Philip?" she asked him and he could see there were tears in her eyes. It saddened him to see her unhappy.

"My Lady, I am Lord Philip Lacroix." He said to her in his most manly tone, giving her a small curtsey. "At your service."

She smiled at him with tears running down her cheeks showing two perfect rows of teeth and he found himself unwittingly smiling back.

"I'm honored my Lord, I am Princess Saida Al Aswad Warda."

_Wow, that sounded kinda big,_ young Philip thought, clearly impressed by her announcement.

"May I ask what brings your Excellency in our lands?"

"A debt." She told him examining his face like she wanted to memorize every detail. "I wanted to make certain you were well."

"I am in excellent health my Lady; I thank you for your interest. But I am afraid you owe no debt to me, for surely I would recall such a serious matter. Mayhap you should talk to my Lady mother."

"I owe more than I can ever hope to repay, young Lord." She told him still smiling, though her eyes were shadowed by sadness, when she added."Many a years ago, I met your father. He saved... life and virtue for me and I fear that in return, I've sent him to his death."

.

Marianne couldn't help but notice that the years had been kind to Princess Saida. There were some gray hairs of course as was to expected, she was but two years younger than her and that meant she was now three and thirty and she had no children as she'd disclosed to her earlier. But her face hasn't change much from that day, when they had first met each other in the Lisbon's palace garden. The only time, her mind corrected her.

"It's been a while" She said trying not to stare at the many jewels adorning the Princess's hands. She was carrying a fortune with her; she thought and smiled as pleasantly as she could.

"Sixteen years." Saida said her eyes wandering at the wealthy surroundings. They were sitting in a big lounge with rich well-crafted wooden furnishings, there Marianne had offered her wine but she politely had refused, preferring a cup of warm chamomile instead.

"I can still remember his face that day..." Marianne said her hands grasping at the golden pendant she wore on her neck. "It was as if he knew that he won't be coming back." Her voice broke and her eyes welled up with tears.

"I am sorry my brother didn't allow you to remain in Lisbon." The guilt was evident in Saida's voice.

Marianne tried to compose herself. She wiped her tears with a linen scarf and then turned her eyes on Saida who had a sullen expression on her face.

"It was not your fault. I wouldn't want to live there anyway; I wanted my son to be a Christian."

"He was not a Christian Marianne."

"I know that."

A moment of silence fell between them. Saida tried to change the subject.

"I hear, you've bought him a title."

Her face lit up and she smiled thinking of little Philip.

"The Duke was kind with me, the gold helped us of course, but it is what my Philip wants to serve as a Knight. To become a warrior, just like his father was."

Saida nodded in agreement.

"Insha'Allah," she said her eyes shining "It is only right for his son to become one. My people still say that _Al Salib_ was the biggest warrior of our time and I'm of that opinion also."

Marianne smiled pleased and poured wine in a silver chalice. They continued talking like old friends until the early hours of the morning.

.

.

.

Epilogue

.

Night of May 21st,

in the year of our Lord 1097,

_battle of Nicaea, 1_ st _Crusade._

.

That was no man.

Stephan had seen many men in his thirty years, fight through severe injuries, but not when their guts had been spilled from their bellies and they were stepping on them as they walked.

The creature bared his large fangs at him as if to stress his point and attacked him again hiding in the shadows of the night. It moved with an uncanny speed, changing directions as it approached him and he swung his broadsword trying to cut off his advance. He missed and it scratched his armor with hands that looked like claws.

He jumped back and searched for help in the dark field around him. He could hear the cries of Christians and Turks as they kept on fighting well into the night in what looked to be a never-ending battle. A battle that had started early in the morning and kept on relentlessly with no sign it'll ever cease. Hours had passed in nonstop fighting and killing. He must have slaughtered more than a dozen men as they kept pursuing the stubborn Turkish soldiers. Three of his best friends have fallen in this god-forsaken place and he had his fill of battle to last him a lifetime. A little after the sun had set for the day, himself along with two of his fellow Knights had fallen upon this demon-creature hidden outside a burned house. They had engaged the creature thinking it to be a runway Muslim soldier, but it turned out they were mistaken and his friends had paid for this mistake dearly.

As you are about to, he said to himself bitterly, seeing the creature with its intestines spilled out, closing in on him again. He was dead tired and he couldn't lift his great-shield, so he stilled his feet and waited for the demon to come to him. With a great leap it reached him and went for his throat.

.

In France, somewhere on the third floor of the large mansion that was his family's estate, in a big curtained room that held ceremonial armors and polished shields, almost hidden in a wooden showcase holding the hand-weapons, a strangely ornamented sword glowed suddenly illuminating the dark room with a green unnatural light.

.

_You should help him,_ the sword said.

.

The blade of his sword slashed one of its ears off, but the left claw of the beast tore the armor from his left shoulder and then ripped a large piece of his flesh. He groaned from the terrible pain and tried to pull himself away but he was too slow. The claws dug in his flesh again and he almost fainted. He thought a quick prayer for his only a month old when he had left son and prepared to die.

But the killing blow never came. Instead he heard the desperate cries of the beast as it fought what appeared to be another man. Thanking the Saints, he willed himself to move and approached the newcomer, grinding his teeth to master the pain of his wound, ready to assist him. But what he saw made him forget his pains and his plans.

The newcomer had stricken the beast using nothing but his bare hand right at the chest. His hand disappeared in the beast's flesh and came out in an explosion of blood and bone splinters, holding it's still beating heart. A moment later the beast had collapsed on the dark ground.

Stephan couldn't believe his own eyes. The throbbing pain on his torn shoulder reminded him that he wasn't dreaming. He realized that the newcomer was staring at him, _he has the eyes_ _of the dead beast_ , he thought. _Oh my God_. He lifted his broadsword, doubting he would survive the next few moments.

The newcomer, a blond long haired young man kept on staring at him with his eerie eyes. For some reason he didn't seem hostile to him. He lowered his sword and pointed at the dead creature on his feet.

"I owe you for this." Stephan told him, wishing the new demon that looked strangely more human now, would stop looking at him without talking. As if sensing his discomfort, the man approached him moving with the grace of a predator. Stephan tensed up immediately but he stayed his sword. He went for diplomacy instead and be damned if they called him a coward.

"Listen friend, I am Stephan Lacroix a Knight. I came here from France with Raymond of St Gilles, to free the Holy Land from Muslim hands." The man had stopped at arm's length and was listening to him. "I gather you are a Norman." He added but the young hard-faced man showed his discomfort at his words grimacing, _my God_ , he thought _he can't be more than twenty_ , as he examined him up close. He had a warrior's built and at least three different small scars on his face remnants surely of past battles.

"You know naught Christian!" The stranger snapped at him frowning, but he could detect a light Norman accent in his words.

"Forgive me. I meant no offence." Stephan said quickly nevertheless.

The man was examining him as if he was searching for something.

"How did you happen upon your name?" he asked him, voice pleasant and colorful, _a man that had traveled a lot_ , he thought and _lived among Arabs for many years._ A strange thing considering his age.

"My family holds this name for many a generations." The stranger's eyes narrowed suspiciously at that but he left him finish his words. "We can trace its origin to a famous Moorish Lord more than a hundred years ago. Every second generation a son is named after him. It is a tradition that I intend to keep."

"You have a son then?" The stranger asked him.

"Aye I have a son."

"What was the name, of this _Moorish_ Lord?" He asked him.

"His name was Philip Al Salib and it is said, he was a great warrior."

He could swear on his mother's grave, he saw the strange man's eyes change color from a dark green to a lighter one. When the man gave him no reply Stephan probed him with another question.

"What of your name stranger?"

He seemed preoccupied with thoughts. He had the strangest feeling that a battle was going on behind his handsome face. An internal silent debate, as if the man was possessed and that its outcome could seal his own fate.

"The _others_ call me Los-sin-casa." The man told him suddenly as if had reached in a decision.

"And what does this mean? Who are these others, you've mentioned?" Stephan asked him.

The man answered him not. He appeared instead to be listening to the night sounds for a while.

"Why did you help me?" the Knight insisted.

His eyes were on him again, strange eyes that held no emotion. Lifeless.

"Because I was asked to do so."

"Asked by whom? What do you mean?"

He seemed to listen again to the sounds of the night around them, completely disregarding him.

"You've won your battle Crusader." He said at last in a mocking tone. Was it true? Was the battle over and if it was, how could he tell? A bad feeling crept up on him.

_You know that answer Stephan,_ his mind taunted him.

Stephan looked around him for signs of his fellow Knights, but silence greeted him and when his eyes returned to the stranger he realized that he had moved in the meantime away from him. He was standing now at the ruins of the burned house; a good fifty feet from where he had last seen him.

The stranger pointed with his hand at the lights of a Christian patrol coming their way but before Stephan could thank him again, the stranger had spoken to him, this time answering a previous question.

"It means _the Rootless_." He told him and then vanished into the night as silently as he had appeared.

Watching the empty dark space the stranger had left behind and hearing the loud Frankish voices of the patrol approaching him, Stephan knew one thing with absolute certainty.

.

That was no man.

.

###
The sword will return

in the Rootless...

### About the author:

.

Angelo Tsanatelis was born in Athens, Greece.

He is a fantasy fiction writer and an off and on poet.

_He enjoys reading all kinds of fiction novels and exploring the Greek islands whenever he finds the time._ He's been writing non-stop, for the past fifteen years.

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More books from Angelo Tsanatelis

In the same universe

The Living Sword Chronicles Book I:

Origins -

More books from Angelo Tsanatelis & Saphire Realms

The Living Sword Chronicles Book II:

The Lodge & the Tribe -

Discover other titles by Angelo Tsanatelis at Smashwords.com:

Songs of Sorrow- <http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/53039>

Songs of Loss- <http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/53037>

The Dark Notes Book I- <http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/66489>

& also by Angelo Tsanatelis

Published by Saphire Realms

The Rootless-

Dark Hunter series

The Ghost of the Cazador

The Shadow & the Blood Assassin

Final Colony series

A.S.H.O.S. Eleven: Day One

Directive 3.1
