 
## **Contents**

Title

Reminder

Prologue

Voices

Saone

Road to Ghmam

Joram

El-Salib

Whispers

A Man, A Plan

The Cave

Afternoon at the Well

Bait

Evening at the Well

The Girl

String Him Up

The Dead Kid

Dreams

By Torchlight

Steel and Stone

Collateral Damage

Washing Feet

Prodigal Son

The Golden Mirror

Shadows and Light

Forward the Cross

Fathers & Sons

Liked what you read?

Epilogue
The Girl and the Golden Mirror

Chronicles of the Way and the Darkness: Prequel

Travis A. Chapman

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© 2017 Travis A. Chapman

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Publisher: Thorium Publishing (via Smashwords, Inc.)

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The Year of Our Lord, 1185

Men across Europe have taken the Cross and travel to Outremer by ship, horse, and afoot. The Kingdom of Jerusalem, the Kingdom of Heaven. Thousands upon thousands follow after dreams and promises. A company of knights led by a young Lord Fallondon Breck arrive in the Principality of Antioch. Their mission yet unknown, their bodies weary from battles in the south. Haunted by demons and bitter memories.

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"For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known." 1 Corinthians 13:12
Chapter 1

Sensual thoughts filled the mind. The silk voice was ethereal and powerful. It spoke many things. Words of confirmation, admiration, and a call to glory. It was strength and stay when so many troubles haunted the sleeper.

You deserve revenge. No one deserves it more. You have it within you.

Restlessness. Twisting and turning, recalling memories long buried under dry sand. Fire and arrows laying waste all around.

Pain.

Tears.

Loss.

There are allies who would help. Allies like you who hear my voice. They are not like their peers. They, too, seek revenge at any cost. Revenge for things stolen. For lost kindred. Allies with strength and iron conviction. Allies with steel and a will to use it.

Pain.

Emptiness.

Loneliness.

Pressing, heavy, like seeking little treasures along the bottom of Tishreen Lake as children. Holding breath till it ached inside. The weight of the waters above threatening to crush little lungs in a watery grave.

I will lead you to them.

Hills. Stone paths. A cave. 
Chapter 2

The stone walls of Saone stood silent watch over the mountain pass. Indistinguishable from the rugged cliffs and tumbling rock falls, the grey and tan blocks caught the eye only by their straight lines and geometric harmony. It was an impressive and awe-inspiring presence to any on the road. Flashes of steel and the crack of banners caught in strong winds helped too. A sleeping giant that stirred in slumber. The keep's occupants preferred to deter enemies when possible.

I followed the young page through a series of passageways, each unremarkable and like the next. He must be nine, maybe ten years old at the most. At that age, one always wondered. Are you a child of this war, or were you unfortunate enough to have been brought here by an eager father?

Hart had to duck beneath several low archways. The big man looked uncomfortable in such close spaces. I couldn't blame him; we were deep in the fortress now. Growing up in my family's demesne in England, we spent most of our time outdoors. Running across pastures and commons, vaulting sheep in the crofts, fighting imaginary foes through the hedgerows. Our keep was small, mostly common room and tower. He was practically brother to me. Who'd have imagined? A Saxon of middling birth and the second son of a noble Norman line, here together across the face of the world.

Inside the labyrinth of passageways, somewhere near the top of the main fortification, a large, dry chamber trapped the master of Saone in his duties. Piles of paper, record books, seals, chests, and candles littered a great wooden table doing service as a desk. Several braziers threw off light in the room and added to the tiny streaks of daylight let in from narrow slits high above. Little more than murder ports, they let in a feeble illumination and no air. Pungent smoke hung in the air with a hellish scent. A mixture of old meals, men's sweat, burnt charcoal, and bitterness lingered in the stagnant air.

Our sandy-haired escort stood by the open door and pounded. Impertinent little whelp. I wonder if the master beat him for such forthrightness? My father wouldn't have brooked such audacity. All of the Breck boys, and many of the pages and squires from neighboring noblemen, had cut switches for acts of rudeness. I stood behind and took in the chamber while waiting a reply. Master of Saone seemed more like a prison sentence than something one aspired. The pudgy man raised his face and called out in a forlorn voice, "Enter."

We came through the portal. The master's eyes weighed us as we approached. Two young knights. We probably looked hardly past twenty summers. Bright eyes, strong arms, broad chests. Scruffy beards, neither too short nor too long. No different than thousands of our following in this land.

"You look like you've seen the road judging by your cloths and boots. Who are you, and why are you here?" A Norman, like me. No 'Ye's' and 'Yer's' in his speech. A pitchy voice though, the kind that sat behind desks all day instead of leading charges.

I stood tall, flattening the blue tabard over my maille, a once white hound and hind chasing one another embroidered over my chest. I tipped my head in obeisance, "M'lord, I am Fallondon Breck, second son of Lord Walter Breck of Breckshire. We've just come up from Ascalon outside Jerusalem, and were told to report to Saone for duty with you."

The master leaned back in his chair, wood creaking against his bulk. Sitting around the keep and fighting the war with administration hadn't left much time for fitness. I could sense he knew I was making that judgment against him. His eyes said as much and betrayed his thoughts. Youth. Soon enough it will be you locked away in a tower, too busy dealing with other men's problems to see to your own.

"Yea, so I've heard. Did you take ship, or did you march? Never mind, it's all the same anyways. You ride with Amalric of Breckshire, I believe?"

"My uncle, sir."

Pudgy face nodded, "We've received word of your exploits in the south. I'm Robert, master here at Saone. Your company is being recalled to Antioch, is that right? Who is your companion here? Looks like a strong boy himself."

Tipping his head, he spoke clearly and loud in the small space. "I'm Hart, m'lord. One of Fallon's liegemen from Breckshire. We've ridden together with Lord Amalric for two years now. He gave us word that we were to split from the main host and take the road through Saone for an errand yer grace." Hart's Saxon accent was strong as ever, a subtle reminder of his heritage. Years after Normans came to England's shores it remained the easiest way to distinguish our people.

Robert's voice brightened a bit sarcastically, "That's right. We're having a spot of local trouble and I need someone to manage it. Amalric was the first to return my summons. It seems you gentlemen are my solution...or as much as I'll get." The master shuffled papers in a vain search for something at his table. If there was organization, I could not guess what it was.

I produced a script from beneath my tabard, handing it to the older man. I'm sure he was stuck behind the table. "Here, m'lord. This is what we received. It didn't describe the nature of the issue though. Prithee tell."

He began reading the script, muttering to himself, before I continued, "It also didn't say what resources we'd have at our disposal. I see there are plenty of men here at the keep. Looks like more than enough to cover your watches. They'd be welcome to ride with us. Might be better for them to get out than sit around dicing all the day long."

Robert lifted his eyes at my bluntness. "Yea, the errand. Trouble on the road further west of here. Are you familiar with the region? No? I figured as much. You must have reached Outremer by sea then. Well, lad, let me tell you. This land is fit to burst like a pox boil. It will pop of its own accord if we don't see to it. Saracens are trying hard to push us back into the sea. Saracens control the land east of Antioch. We're not more than a few days ride from Saladin's troops, and Damascus isn't too far from their picket lines. I receive word of new skirmishes every day, up and down the Orontes. That river is the only thing stopping them from a hard assault.

"The locals are a mix of peasantry who scratch a living from this hellish place. That's where this gets troubling. The road is no longer safe. We've had reports of pilgrims and caravans attacked between Latakia and Antioch. Supposedly the people are found in..." The pause lengthened as he sought the right description. "Questionable circumstances. I cannot spare any of my men. The garrison must remain here in Saone. Yet my lord the Prince of Antioch desires to erase this problem. Bohemond has been explicit in that."

I blushed at the chiding. Hart looked fit to burst. Neither of us spoke up.

Robert continued, "You will take your knights and retainers up to the Tishreen Lake. It's as good a place to start as any. Find out what you can, and if it's within your capacity, stop the perpetrators. I'd prefer to have them stand trial for their crimes if you can manage it. I've hung dozens of infidels from the gibbets here. Good example for others and who cares about a few more? How many do you ride with?"

"How many what, sire?"

The master blushed now, "How many knights?"

I smirked, "Only three, m'lord, but I have a dozen men-at-arms in my train. We should be fine. If we determine the threat is too great, I'm sure your grace will see sufficient reason to reinforce our party."

It was Robert's turn to grind his teeth. It was good to see my repartee find a chink in his defenses. "We will see, young sir. We will see. I'll write you new orders and deliver them tonight. You may resupply from our pantry if needed. The barracks are full, but you may stay inside the keep tonight. If you can find space. Depart early enough tomorrow and you might make the lake with a hard march. You may join us at table tonight if you must."

I bowed, "Yea, m'lord." The message from uncle remained firmly planted in my mind, a defense against this embarrassment. Don't get your head up too high. You still have a lot to learn. Take this errand and I'll meet you in Antioch when you are finished. Await your reward from me.

"Unless you need anything else, you have my permission to be dismissed." Robert waved his hand and resumed his study of reports and forms. Hart and I looked at one another with shared disdain, turned and left. The click of our spurs rang through the chamber, but the accusatory message was lost on the fat man's ears. 
Chapter 3

The road from Saone to Antioch was beautiful. The paths were laced with tiny flowers set among the brush. Father once told me of the vast deserts we'd find here in Outremer, but it was months since I'd worried over sand storms. These lands were mountainous and filled with the fragrance of cypress trees. Cool breezes kissed the valleys, and steep hills rose on either side of our path. Where the ground did level off there were small plots growing grapes and olives. Shepherds minded flocks of sheep and goats, dotting the pastured hillsides like shifting wisps of cloud.

At the same time, some sections were barren and forgotten. Hard scrabbles of stone chip fell off into deep canyons, and patches of loose scree climbed up hillsides. Armies of tough bushes and choked trees grew in impossible directions. The road had long been cleared by passing caravans and foot-weary pilgrims, but the occasional head-sized rock rolled down with a crash of small thunder. It made one observant. The horses were smart enough to avoid obstructions and leg-threatening hazards. Our train stretched for some ways with all of our supplies and remounts. Even for just three full knights, it was no small matter. Our men-at-arms were well supplied with horseflesh after the Ascalon campaign.

"Hart, what do you make of this errand? Worthy of our effort, or waste of time?" I chewed on smoked meat between sentences. The cook in Saone did right by us when replenishing our stock. Their pantry was full to the brim with dry stores, and he didn't balk when Jody filled our panniers with goods. As for the salty treat I enjoyed, he didn't say what animal he'd used and I didn't ask. It was delicious.

Hart's horse Argent shuffled beside Starchaser. We led a string of animals behind our party. The sight was common enough in these lands. Knights tended to travel together and kept remounts with them. With so many crusaders in the land, it was only a matter of time before captured horses traded hands. Some men still had their mounts from home. Starchaser made the voyage with ease, and served me well in battle. Argent was French stock and evil. The story of this company.

"I wish our task came from someone competent to help. No men to spare, eh? That fat hog probably got stuck beneath his desk and can't lift himself out for his necessaries, let alone to actually fight. Road guard feels like a jest. It's a role for the Templars. No disrespect to the Prince and his retainers, but picket duty? Thought the Templars were supposed to be protecting the roads. Feels like a job for some talented sergeants to manage. After everything we've been through, everything we've fought for, it feels like we're starting all over again. Where are our rewards? Our little kingdoms? Nothing at all to show for it all. Baldur, what do ye think?" Hart sat easy in his seat. Argent swayed him back and forth like rocking a babe. A big babe.

Baldur laughed like the old codger he was. "No disrespect, huh? I've learned to hold my tongue on such matters. You'd be surprised how quickly such musings reach waiting ears. Prince Bohemond must feel differently about Robert. After all, Saone is a significant charge. But I can't say. Something sounded off from reports I heard among the garrison. Maybe it's just the newness of the place to me. All I know is I'm ready for a break from siege work and pitched battle. Never you mind riches and lands. Be grateful you still have your head and aren't rotting away in some Saracen dungeon. You'd cry a different tune then, boy." The old man kept looking around us, up into the hills. Wary.

"I agree with you both. But that doesn't stop me wanting a little bit more. We have been denied. No one disputes our conduct in battle or our contribution to the cause. Yet I've seen many others honored before us despite doing much less. It's time we come into our own. Uncle Amalric was right, best to make short work of this errand and be gone. I heard the King and his army moves south toward Egypt even now. They will try to take Mansurrah in the spring. Think of their reward. The treasures of the Pharaohs. Gold from the Nile. All the wealth and mystery of their lands. Yet here we are, little better than gooseherds watching their gaggle squawk at one another."

Baldur and Hart were silent for a bit. Maybe I'd struck a chord. Then Baldur continued, "M'lord, we've spoken of this before. I caution you against such thinking. If this is an easy errand, then take the rest it provides. There are enemies enough in these lands. Trouble will find us easily enough. You proved yourself already. I know Lord Walter would be proud if you returned home today, and he'd be thankful for it too."

Hart snorted, "I think he'd be disappointed we accomplished so little. We came to cleanse these lands of filth. To take back what was lost. What if we return empty-handed? Better to not return at all if ye ask me."

Hart's words struck me. His shield was down now. I felt the same, though wouldn't say much about it. Surely my brother Jonathan was managing the orchards and keeping Breckshire safe. It was time for the apple harvest and reaping the fields. Festivals and celebrating a good summer. Sure, we had participated in great battles. The Breck name was known by those we served and those around us. But what could we say for ourselves? If I turned this score of men around, we'd barely have enough coin to sustain us to the coast. Maybe up to Armenia. No riches, no lands, and nothing to show for all our martial success.

We crept up a hilly section of road, slowly climbing towards Ghmam. Somewhere ahead a branch would break left and lead us the rest of the way up into the hills and to the village. I knew Tishreen Lake lay to our left as well. Small creeks spilled down creating swaths of green growth. Just a few more turns to go.

A curious thing caught my attention. A sleek canine head lifted itself from behind a rock. With a scrabble of stone he was standing and lopped towards me. His brindle coat blended into the landscape. There were dogs throughout this land, throughout all of Outremer. Most were gangly creatures, all skin and bone, mongrels and whelps all, starved and more dangerous because of it. The nobles here did not keep hunting animals like we did in England. Usually we found these strays in the vicinity of settlements, lingering in the alleys and byways of cities and towns. I didn't recall seeing one so far afield.

He came without fear right up to my horse, stick in his mouth and sneezing like springtime was upon us. As the train marched on he got out a ways ahead of us. Starchaser eyed him warily. The dog acted like no harm would come from the heavy mount. My horse decided he was no threat, throwing a light whinny and bluster but nothing more. Usually the animal was more temperamental. Once by my side, the dog sat on its haunches, dropped its stick, and gave two barks. Its tongue flapped in the dry air, its tail wagging in the dust.

"Ho, little friend. Go on home. Git." I waved my hand like it would do something. The dog laid down, rolled around in the dirt for a moment, then hopped up, took its stick and trotted ahead. When he saw we weren't moving as fast, he slowed and waited.

"I guess we have a new companion. Hart, don't worry about the battles and glory. We'll have opportunity yet to win acclaim. Surely Uncle Amalric is finding our next duties in Antioch as we speak. Maybe we'll march on Damascus, or Aleppo? There's still time to gain all you seek. This errand will be over quickly and we'll laugh about how they should have sent the squires instead. Who knows, maybe you'll find a hidden jewel in the village and swoon at the sight of a desert diamond whilst Baldur dreams of hearty French ladies." Even Baldur laughed at my jest. Hart just blushed, the big ox.

I heard the clatter of hooves ahead and stopped the train. Everyone gripped weapons and prepared. No one doubted the dangers the road could present. We were exposed. Ironic for the complaining we'd just made. Jody crested the hill before us and reined to a halt. He was shaken and straining for breath.

"M'lord, ye'll want to see this. I... I..." I don't remember seeing him so worked up before. Even in pitched battle he was more controlled. The dog yelped, looked at me and trotted up the hill before us.

"Jody, it's alright. Take your time." My mind raced with speculation. Danger? I gripped my sword hilt tighter.

Baldur kicked his steed ahead, "Come m'lord. Let's see what strikes fear in the old badger." He drew his sword and a chorus of steel followed. Hands gripped lances tighter. Shields clacked as men pull them close.

The company started up again, weapons in hand. Eyes searched left and right for anything that might betray a threat. The sad baying of our new canine friend was foreboding to my ears.

Baldur stood slack-jawed at the hilltop, Jody beside him. Hart and I reined in as well. Horses skittered to a halt behind us as the more and more filled into the road and broke away to see. Their bluster and nickers added to the noise of weapons shifting in hands. Silence reigned among the men.

Crosses. I counted a dozen straight away but knew there were more. Planted alongside the road like trees, rough-hewed and recently cut. The old style with a tall post, topped with a cross-beam and maybe some bracing, forming a T. Black crows mounted the upper arms filling the air with their lonely cries. My gut turned at the thought of these eyeless corpses crying out in agony. Most were men, but I spied at least two women and three children. Pinned up carcasses spoiling in the air. They were naked. I guessed some had been...spoiled, before being spiked to the crosses.

The crucified man nearest me wore a broken board tied to his feet. Baldur translated the flowing script for us. Not welcome.

We sat for minutes taking the scene in. Each cross was painted in streaks of blood that darkened the ground before them. The crows had made sport of several. A light breeze picked up and washed their stench over us. Several men lost their meals. The dog sat by one of the crosses and began crying a sad song to the sky. His spare ribs and mangy coat shook with grief. He looked as miserable as I felt.

I looked at Hart and Baldur, a grim set in my face. "I take back what I said earlier. We are needed here."
Chapter 4

We took the path in single-file. Rocky and steep in sections, it wound upward like a tan scar across the scrubby hillside toward Ghmam. Left and right we saw flocks tended by wary young men. Boys prepared to defend against wolves and hawks, lions and thieves. Every one we'd seen was cut from the same weave, thin and lanky, dark skin and black hair. My knights were tan from months afield here in Outremer, yet we were still shades paler than the locals. It was never hard to distinguish Franks, Normans, Saxons, and others from the west from those born in this hell. How anyone survived was a mystery to me. Yet, here they were, generations upon generations going back to the beginning of time.

We turned one last corner and tipped onto a flat stretch filled with stone structures ahead. Syria was a wonder to me. Back in Breckshire our people lived in mud-daubed homes of thatch and woven wood. Our keep was the only stone structure in town. Everything else was wood. Here, it was the opposite. The hills were covered in greys and browns. Uncut stone was in ample supply, and people simply extended walls directly out from cliff faces. Homes were built one next to another to share structure, and many were built atop older homes below. From the road we'd seen several villages that resembled bee hives clutching to the sides of hills. Ghmam was no different.

Children raced before us screaming as we rode the wide path through the village. It was always the same, no matter where we went. A mix of excitement and fear about the unknown, their shrill voices fed whispers and calls by concerned mothers gathering their charges. Families hid behind dark doorways, searching us for intent. Activity paused as we passed by. With such a train, a score of riders, lances and pennons flapping in the air, and the flash of steel, there was little doubt we were a significant threat. At least, the perception was there.

One structure caught my attention immediately. Tall, at least two levels if not more. It was hard to judge without windows. A double-wide entry faced the path as it took a turn leading further up into the hills.

A bear and an angel stood before the smooth plank doors.

The man stared daggers at us. I guessed I'd still be looking up into his face if I were dismounted. Thick arms and a barrel chest were imperfectly hid beneath his kaftan robe. Like most Syrian men, he wore muted colors with little accessory. His beard was full but trimmed and brushed. His turban added more height to an already impressive stature. The girl next to him helped me contrast.

She was lithe and curvy, more so when standing next to her companion. Her robes were blues and whites, embroidered along the edges, and bound with a sash about her waist. She wore a scarf and veil like most women here, her almond eyes and a touch of olive-tan skin peeking behind the fine fabric. I couldn't tell whose eyes were more dangerous. Hers were pools of amber starlight that drew me in, hypnotizing and radiant all at once.

I brought the train to a halt and looked around. The dog followed us all the way here. He lopped up to a bucket and lapped up water, then laid down on a stoop. People had gathered in the square before the house. Like every village, Ghmam naturally grew out from a common space that connected all roads, all paths, and all homes. The souk was at once a market, a meeting place, a hive of activity, and the heart of village life. Robed men with thick beards and dark skin stood nearby, waiting to see what would happen next. Voices piled over one another in anticipation. The smells of spiced stews and grilled meat filled my nose. A stone oven threw off heat nearby and filled the air with the scent of wood smoke. Children clutched their parents' robes. Parents clutched one another. We were quite unexpected.

Ghmam was chaos under the surface.

I could understand. We were a small force but showed great strength. My men all wore blue tabards embroidered with the Breck family hound and hind. To them, it probably looked like a stag and some starved dog. Like the dozens around Ghmam, and very much like our canine companion. While not fully kitted out, we had chain shirts and sturdy clothes for travel. No chausses, or maille leggings. Most wore steel helmets, though everyone had learned to wear hoods of light colors when in the sun. Once-white mantles covered our shoulders. Swords hung at our sides, shields in hand, and most bore tall spears with blue pennons cracking in the air. There was little doubt who we were. Crusaders.

I didn't understand most of the words being passed between the people. Baldur and Hart had picked up more of the local tongue than I, and I expected we'd end up doing a lot of hand signing and dirt-drawing to communicate our purpose. No one was as surprised as me to hear the bear-man greet us in unaccented French. "Good day my lords. What may you desire of us?"

Well...interesting. Not perfect, but he knew enough. I replied in kind, "Who leads here? Where is your head man? The master?"

"I am, sir. My name is Joram."

I touched my forehead in obeisance. "I'm Lord Fallondon Breck, of Breckshire in England. We serve the Prince in Antioch. These are my retainers, Hart and Baldur. My sergeant, Jody. You'll meet the rest soon enough. We have come from Saone to defend the road. For Christians and any others. We saw...we saw the crosses below. What can you tell of this?"

Rustling behind Joram grew louder. Whispers and exclamation. He wasn't the only one who spoke their tongue. Everyone knew the word "crosses" and what it implied.

"You are in Ghmam, sir. This village is home to many Christians like myself. We know what you speak of. You seek El-Salib."

Baldur asked, "El-Salib? What is this?" I guessed they were near the same age. Baldur's thick mustache and beard hid his years, but his eyes betrayed his age too easily. Crows' feet and scars collected over the years marked his face. He was like an old corbie himself, black hair and observant eyes. Like the ravens that filled the trees and brush across this land.

"El-Salib means 'the cross' in our tongue. He owns the roads here. It is his handiwork you saw. His punishment for those he dislikes and things he chooses not to believe in."

The girl interrupted, "Will you stop him? Will you find El-Salib and do justice upon him?"

Her lilting voice did little to hide fear and anger. The man looked down at her, "Hush, daughter. Hold your tongue. This is men's business. Let me speak."

She scowled at him, "You would do little more than speak. We must act. These men might help us. We must protect this place. We must protect—"

"Stop!" He dropped his voice to a whisper, but I still caught enough to understand. "These men are dangerous. We don't know who they are or what they mean to do."

I dismounted and approached. Joram was tall. I looked him square in the chin before tilting my eyes toward his. "M'lord, we do not intend anything harmful to you and yours. We were charged with a task of protecting the road. I seek information and help to accomplish that task. We won't stay any longer than necessary." I rested my hand on the hilt of my blade, "But we will stay."

He frowned. I'm sure if he had another choice he would have taken it, but I guessed the village had no true defenses. We saw none on our ride in, not counting the shepherds with their slings and staffs.

"What do you want to know?"

Most of the train remained ahorse and wary, looking about them through the village. They demonstrated vigilance and worry, mounts skittering beneath nervous riders. I could hear the snort and bluster of agitated animals behind me. Not helping the show of peace I had hoped for.

Maybe it was best to make acquaintance first. "Christians? I thought all these lands worshiped Allah?"

Joram's dark face burned red when he understood the question. "There are Muslims here too. The Alawites. It is by their leave and courtesy we remain. Most live in other villages around the lake. As I said, I am Joram. Joram El-Houmame. My family worship the Christ. We have since the apostles came to these lands. It is because of him we are here now, driven from our homes. Maybe you have heard of Aleppo?"

"I know of it. A city east of here. Not quite as large as Damascus, but large enough."

"That it is. When the first barbarians came south decades ago there was constant fighting. You people would not take no for an answer. No explanation would suffice. You saw only dark-skinned men. We were all the same to you. Yet we are different, and those of our land know these things. They know the difference between a follower of the prophet and a follower of Christ, Melkites like us. The sultanate found our presence inappropriate and began taking action. Burning homes, taking goods from our caravans and markets. Small things, but the message was clear."

I frowned in understanding. "Not welcome?"

Joram smirked, "You know this? It is true. We were not welcome. We sought safety in the lands held by white Christians, but you saw us as dogs. Few crusaders stop to ask what faith you hold before running down a dark-skin with his lance. It was holy intervention that brought us here to Tishreen and Ghmam."

I looked around at the village. Stone houses rose up around hard dirt paths. Bits of colored cloth broke up the scene of browns and greys. Not the refuge I would have asked for. "How long have you been here?"

"Over ten years now. It's a good life. Hard, but good. We trade with our neighbors without issue. Alawite Muslims, other Melkite Christians, whoever has goods or coin. Our herds and flocks do well. My sons run the caravans for me. My family has prospered." Joram smiled with pride. Maybe I was able to break through and seek reason with him yet.

"I can tell. Your family?"

It took a moment, but he opened up. "Three sons, sir. Two are away with caravans and will return soon. My youngest, Akram, will join them in another year. He's like all boys. Thinks he knows more than his father. My daughter helps care for us."

"And your wife?"

Silence. Moments passed. The girl finally spoke, a ghost hiding behind her answer. "She passed several years back. A skirmish outside of the village. We never learned which side the arrow came from."

Joram growled but said nothing to her. His scowl returned. "This is my daughter, Safyl. It is only my children and I now. Though I have a maid servant who thinks she is my wife. To hear her admonish me, you'd never tell the difference."

I bowed my head, "Thank you sir. I'm sorry for your loss. I intend to setup a base somewhere to organize our efforts. As I said, we are here to protect the road. It seems our first task is to find this El-Salib. Is there a place we can establish our lodging?"

"No"

The dog growled from his perch on the stoop. Joram and I looked at one other, willing the other to back down first. Where the previous conversation was filled with courtesy and even mirth, the tone now darkened. The wary bear bowed his head before continuing.

"I know what you seek, Crusader. I don't doubt your sincerity about protecting the road. You might even succeed. Think of our people though. If you establish yourselves here, El-Salib will know we are supporting you. What will he do to our families? To our flocks? What happens after you leave and another takes his place? How long will you stay? A month? A year? Maybe another troupe comes along to take your place. New faces, new relationships, new ideas. Relearning everything all over again. We've seen this before. It would be better for you to leave. Camp by the road if you must, but you are not welcome to stay in Ghmam."

The blunt reply hit me like bricks. Retorts filled my mind and threatened to spill over, yet a small voice agreed with Joram. Not that it was my plan, but I figured a week at most, maybe a month, would see us gone and on towards Antioch. Uncle Amalric would surely have worked out lands for us by then. For now, it seemed that force was necessary. I had a mission to accomplish, one way or another. Bear he might be, but I had steel on my side.

"I'm afraid I must insist. We will stay out of your way as best we can. Maybe something on the outskirts, out of your daily lives? We will compensate the displaced as best we can. We'll likely take on a hand or two as well. Your concerns are noted, sir. I do not want to bring more harm to you. Yet you must understand the danger around you. Those people may have been pilgrims or unfortunate travelers, but they were people. How long before El-Salib begins taking your own? Will he stop when your caravans come through? For your sons? For your daughter?"

Safyl choked back a sob and blushed. Joram twitched at that. I guessed he'd thought of it long before. He stroked his beard and stood tall, but eventually nodded. Arms spread wide, hands turned up in reluctant acceptance. "What can I do then? There's a house as you depart the village, on the right side. A widow lives there who would be glad of your coin. She speaks none of your tongue though. If I hear you've mistreated her, it will go poorly for you. We have little steel, but much love for one another.

"As for your errand, do what you think is best. If I ask questions, it's for the sake of my kin and our people. We will help as best we can, but don't expect much. Everyone here has experienced the peace brought to these lands by both sides of your war. I don't think you'll find many friends."

I nodded. Well Fallon, welcome to Ghmam. I looked at the mongrel lying on the stoop, then at Joram. "Don't worry. I have a dog."
Chapter 5

Fires crackled in the hills south of Ghmam. The men following the crucifier sat about the entry to a cave, a portal into a network of tunnels and warrens they had operated from for weeks. Cooking under the moonlight provided a chance for fresh air. Most had acclimated to the stench lingering among their bed rolls. The newest felt that pungent sting in their nostrils.

It also allowed them the opportunity to conduct their work without bringing the mess inside. Three bodies lay to one side, their throats slit and eyes gouged out. Scorch marks from once flaming brands marked how their sight was taken. Most would find this heinous to watch, let alone conduct, yet these young men did so without hesitation. They were numb after many months of war.

A pile of cloths and goods lay beside another fire, the spoils of their raid ready to be divided. This group of pilgrims traveled light, and represented the poverty so often found among the adherents of their faith. Not like the wealthy Christians who accompanied the crusaders. It had been weeks since they'd hit upon such a group, but the memories were fresh. Locked chests of alms for their tithe to a false god. Rich clothes and jewelry adorning the party. A half dozen men-at-arms providing weapons, chainmaille, and horses for trading...the women providing distraction.

This party was anything but that. Four men of the cloth, self-declared prophets and friars journeying from Latakia to Antioch. Prayers to their false god had done them no good. The last was on his knees and sobbed in supplication to his only chance of salvation in this world. El-Salib. The Cross.

The bear-like leader of the band stood over his prey like a cold wind. No cries touched his mind. No words softened his hatred. The man before him, stripped to his small cloths, was nothing more than a rodent. Pitched blubbering continued as seconds stretched into minutes. The audience laughed at his admonitions. Finally, when the man was clearly broken inside, stuttering mindless babble without form or purpose, when his hope was extinguished, El-Salib struck. In a flash of silver, his dagger swept out from its sheath, cutting an arc through the dim evening light before opening the friar's neck. An arc of crimson sprayed out as his stroke finished. Two men stood with flaming brands to finish this work.

El-Salib wiped his dagger on a scrap of cloth before returning it to his side. His maille coat rustled softly as he returned to his fire. Clad in the same light kit of his men, El-Salib was ready for action at any moment. Their horses were saddled nearby, horn bows in cases, arrows stocked in their quivers. The party finished their meal and sharpened swords in preparation for the night's events.

"My master, what do you make of the news from Ghmam?" A bearded young man, no more than eighteen summers, tilted his head in obeisance while checking his weapons.

El-Salib brushed his leather boots by the fire. They had been afield for many weeks, and his men showed signs of ill-use. Discipline could only take them so far, yet he had to set the example. They were constantly in preparation, maintaining their readiness. There was always another mission.

"I am not surprised. We knew our actions would attract attention. What do you think, my son?"

The boy shifted, not expecting to be honored with recognition of his opinion. "I worry we will be caught. So far, no one has opposed us. No one could oppose us. Yet now our source tells us that knights have arrived. Not just caravan guards, but a significant complement. How can we fight them?"

"The same way we have always fought. In the shadows. They are men, no different than any others. They know fear. They can be taught to know fear. Who are they?"

"I heard the name Breck mentioned. Our spy knew little else, only their number and whence they came."

Energy built behind the voice, "Breck? I know this name. Our family has fought them before. It's good. They deserve a fate worse than crosses. Now I have someone worthy of my attentions."

"My master, what if they cannot be deterred?"

A dark smile crossed El-Salib's face, "Why would I want to deter them? I want to find them and do justice on them. We will sweep them from these lands like we have so many others. They have no support here. How many villages will help them, knowing their families are under threat of our wrath? How long will Ghmam hold out if we ensure no woman may reach their wells or the lake? If their shepherds are not safe in the hills? These knights will find no love among the people, no quarter and no beds. We will crush their spirits, steal their hope, and then break them."

"But master, they are too many. They say they have come from Ascalon, from the war there. They—"

El-Salib's hand struck with the fury of a storm. The young boy flew back from his perch and stumbled over himself. The fire's glow reflected his reddened cheeks and a growing blue welt. A trickle of blood dripped down from where chain links tore flesh.

Standing up as if nothing had happened, El-Salib stepped toward the boy. The rest watched warily. Towering over the prone youth, their leader's voice boiled over. "Listen now you coward. I will not say it again. These knights are nothing to us. Treat them no different and give them no more thought. You are my child and should not suffer from ignorant fears. You have only one task, all of you. That is to do what I command. Obey and you shall see your rewards. Shirk your duties, and you will not live long enough to care. Does anyone dispute me?"

Silent eyes stared back. No sound, not even a rustle of cloth, in reply.

"No? Then enough of idle talk."

El-Salib pulled on his helmet, a steel cap wrapped in a red turban. A veil of woven chain links fell before his face, surrounding head and covering neck. Two holes were left open for him to see through. The fire's light reflected off his dark eyes. "Prepare to depart. Get these bodies loaded up. Someone start collecting the poles. We have a long night ahead and I want to get these trophies displayed before sunrise. I suspect we'll have travelers to welcome to Tishreen on the morrow. Who's watched the girl Safyl? If these knights do not get the message, then we will need leverage. Joram's daughter will be more than sufficient. She can lead us to the abomination they keep. It's only right, given her role here."
Chapter 6

You know what to do. They are coming. The ones who can help you. You must tell them what you know. Share what you have seen.

Iron through flesh. Nails in wood. Blood dripping into thirsty sand.

Our friend is preparing a welcome. Gleaning from the infidels. He will aide you.

Restless. Twisting in sleep. Pain flashed, old memories turned over like stones in the hills. Who knew what lay beneath, waiting to be exposed? Vipers, or scorpions, or decay? The voice continued, soothing, melodic, edged with danger and threat. It was warm and friendly, a companion, yet something dark stirred beneath it.

Welcome these knights. Befriend them. Learn their ways. Make them comfortable. Get close. Close enough they will never know your intentions.

Silver flashing.

Torch light.

Fires burning in the village.

Screams.

Mother, running toward them. She fell. An arrow sprouted from her breast.

Cries.

Hate.

Vengeance.

Remember. They took her. They stole your family. Your father's heart. Your heart. Take back your anger and return it upon them. 
Chapter 7

Our quarters weren't so bad. The widow Riham was kind. You could tell she was once a desert beauty with kind eyes and an alluring smile. The years were not bad to her either, though her face bore the weathering of time. She'd lost her husband some years before and was used to living alone, but I think she appreciated the company. We all tried to help with the daily chores, hauling water and preparing meals. We even got around to repairing all the small wounds that time makes in a house. Renewing the floor rushes, replacing cracked stones, and resupplying the firewood. She smiled more and more each day, except when Jody prepared the meal. My initial fears were misplaced. She spoke enough of our tongue to manage and we picked up enough of their words to get by. Like most places in the world, our common language was coin. She had something we needed. We had money. We made it work.

The thick stone walls did well to collect warmth during the day and hold it through the night. It was much better than shivering in blankets through cold watches afield. I never thought the weather in such a country could turn between extremes like this. Blistering days and frigid nights were not uncommon. It would be fall in Breckshire, a time of celebration and preparation for winter. Here, the extremes in temperature still shocked us. We made sure a steady supply of wood came in for the fire. Sleeping more than a dozen in the house helped too. The dog stayed by my feet most nights, unless someone tossed a bone or scraps outside. Whenever I complained about our conditions, I only need look at his scrawny, leggy body to remember this land valued toughness.

After the first night we dispatched two pairs of riders for road pickets. We set about planning immediately. Rotations and patrol routes were tossed out among the group for discussion, and the single, lonely table of the house became our war center. Several days in found us actively engaged in our favorite activity.

Disagreement.

"I tell you, it's these paths to the south. They all spill onto the road near the main stretches. If you track them up into the hills they all converge, leading further in. We've seen tracks, surely from our Saracens. The evidence is clear that they are operating in the south." Baldur was hot about the subject having seen what he claimed were horsemen two evenings prior.

"But what about this section here?" I pointed to a sprig of cypress near one corner, our recently acquired table-symbol for the forest to the west. It stood near two blue stones, a carved block of wood, an overturned basket, Jody's dagger, half of some local fruit I couldn't name, a few tufts of sheared wool, and a wooden cup. I think the cup was Ghmam. Or Hart's empty from last night. It was hard to keep them all straight. "These woods show signs of use as well. I found deep tracks in the mud, at least a dozen strong on horseback."

Hart leaned back against a wall, staring at the mud-daubed ceiling. He sighed, "We've been over this enough. It can't be the forest. There's no place for them to store supplies that we haven't seen yet. Too exposed. Besides, we could just burn them out if it came to it." The dog sniffed and growled at his new favorite thing, a twisted piece of cypress wood from the lake. He had chewed through the original stick he brought into Ghmam days ago. Gnaw, gnaw, crack, slap... it was his contribution to the discussion.

The door banged opened as newcomers entered. Jody pulled his cloak off and pitched it across the room. Something clattered to the ground and the widow winced. Riham gave Jody a hard look. A scolding look? He joined us at the table, a look of frustration and anger mixed together behind his beard. Akram stepped in behind him.

"Four more. Two days ride west, past the forest. Hung like Jesus himself, all beside the road. Eye gouged out. Couldn't tell if that was before they was nailed up or after. We came because we saw the crows gathering. Bloody God's bones sire. Four. Four! One barely old enough to be called a man."

Hart closed his eyes and asked, "Who were they?"

"Best we could tell they was pilgrims. Looked like men of the cloth from what I could see. Same signs as we saw before too. Akram translated. 'Not welcome'."

"Any trail?" Baldur looked like he'd lose his meal.

"None, sir. Or least ways, same as before. Horse tracks, footprints, wood shavings, but nothing more. None of the local boys saw anything. None of the shepherds, no one on the road. Nothing." Jody was deep in a mood now. He picked up Ghmam and filled it with wine from a clay jar. Didn't bother to water it before tipping it all down his throat and slamming the cup back on the table.

Akram looked at the floor, twisting his hands before him. He spoke a few words toward Baldur in his tongue. The boy didn't speak French or English. No more than a few words, at least. Thankfully Baldur's command of the language grew each day. We all knew some. I caught the words 'hole' and 'far away'. I think. Or was that 'ditch' and 'over there'?

"You haven't checked the caves to the south yet." A different voice interrupted. A lady's voice. Everyone turned to see Safyl standing by the doorway. She was dressed in another of the traditional long dress worn by most women here. I struggled to remember...abaya, maybe, with a bright scarf tied about her waist. I'd never noticed how slim she was, or how the scarf accentuated feminine curves. She wore the same covering over her hair we'd seen among all the women in Syria. Our fashions tended toward wimples of white cloth common to the nunneries and courts, but here all women wore dark shambars and veils. I was slowly learning the nuances of their dress. The litany of new names for simple things like trousers and shirts made my head swim. One thing I did notice was that Safyl almost never went veiled. Not since the first day we'd met. I hadn't asked why. Her bright eyes betrayed the intelligent mind testing us.

"M'lady, you look well today. But I must say, this is men's talk. We're working on our patrol plan. Don't you have other tasks to be about? Up at the well? Anywhere?"

She smiled back at me, "My father is trying to convince the village not to stone you in your sleep. He remains unconvinced you mean no harm to us. Akram will have trouble explaining. So it's left to me to help you. Seems like you need it. Besides, Riham is here so it is not wrong for me...for me to...to be with you. You all." I could tell she struggled to explain her justification in our tongue, but credit to her for trying. "Now as he was saying, the caves. You should search near the caves."

Hart stared her down, "We don't need yer help girl. We're doing just fine."

"Really? How many did the fat one find nailed up this time? Were any of them from this village? What about down the valley? Have you spoken with the rest of the Melkites? The Alamites across the lake? Do you know who lives near the wadi to the south, or those above the hills? Can you even tell the difference?"

Jody stuttered, "Of course we can. Ye know, the one wears the...the blue turbans... And the other..."

She rolled her eyes, disdain dripping in her voice, "Nay, sir. Do you not know the difference between Christians and Muslims? Where each village is at and who they serve?"

Silence answered her.

"I thought as much. Listen you...stubborn...goats. About a day's ride east, then south, there are caves. Many caves. Similar to the ones we have here, carved over time and by many hands. I hear the shepherds talking at the well and they all say there is more activity going on there. It would seem there is something to...investigate." Her chiding was gentle. I could smell sandalwood in the air, surely from her. It eased my anger over her curtness. I noticed the dog had chosen to lie at her feet now. She bent down to stroke its muzzle, eliciting a series of doggy purrs.

Baldur asked, "M'lady, how would we find this place? Do you know the way?"

She blushed, "Nay. My brother Akram might take you, or one of the other village boys. I cannot go. Not with you, at least. But again, this is what I've heard from those at the well."

I looked at the men. "I've never fought in caves before. Only open ground. Not sure what we'd be getting into. It may be worth sending someone to explore. Hart, would you be up for it?" I wanted to send her away. To ignore this foolish talk. Yet Baldur seemed to respect her opinion. Who knew what lay out there?

"Aye. I can head out first thing tomorrow. Take the next patrol. We'll try to find one of the shepherd kids to take along. Unless Akram can come?" The boy nodded when Baldur asked him directly.

Safyl stepped over to the table, looking over our impromptu map. I almost missed it, but her eyes took everything in without betraying her observation. Each detail tucked away. Her scent was cloying this close. My heartbeat rose, subtly at first, but within moments I could feel a pulse in my head. A trickle of sweat started down my forehead. My ears deciphered the sounds of her garments rustling imperceptibly in the closeness we shared. She picked up the cup representing Ghmam, still wet with wine, looked at me and smiled. She set it back down gently.

"M'lord, I can show you the caves here, if you'd like. It would give you an idea of what to expect. They are over the hill, towards the lake."

Seconds drifted together. Baldur gave a cough, drawing my attention back. "Yea, that would be... That would be excellent, m'lady. We'll leave Hart to prepare his men, Jody to rest. How far is it?"

"Just across the village. It is not far. You will need a lamp or torch. You'll understand once we get there."

"Baldur, I would appreciate your company. We're ready at your command, m'lady."

Safyl smiled back at me and gestured to follow. The dog got up and followed her out. Baldur nudged me hard as he passed. I gasped a quick breath. It wasn't just propriety that drove my request. Something didn't add up. Her knowledge of the situation, her insistence on seeking a remote location. I wouldn't be in her presence alone if I could help it. The priests in our chapel taught me as much. No one asked Adam whether the serpent was a woman too, yet we all knew it was Eve who proffered the apple and caused our fall. I swore I would not be distracted by such things. 
Chapter 8

"So you see Fallon, Adam was there too, at least near enough to Eve to know what happened and that something was wrong. If you think about it, for a finite moment in eternity Adam had the choice between God and woman, and he chose his wife. Chose her after he failed to protect her. So don't go blaming Eve for everything. You're not some ignorant youth who didn't finish his studies, right m'lord?" Baldur's admonishment was pointed but necessary. I'd shared my concerns and comparison to Eve on the walk up the hill. Baldur was quick to correct the errors in my thinking. Thankfully Safyl was far enough ahead with Riham that she couldn't hear us. I hoped.

"Thank you. I suppose I didn't think of it that way." Darkness hid my red cheeks.

"But you are right to be wary of her. Of everyone here. We don't know who to trust yet." Baldur clapped my shoulder as we entered a tall cut in the face of the hillside.

"It feels so close. Like they are closing in on us." The cut-rock walls provided a clear way ahead yet hung over us like heavy blankets. Light filtered around stone from the space before us. Crumbling sandstone crunched underfoot as we proceeded. Riham was silent ahead, carrying a simple oil lamp. I guessed she knew when a chaperon was required and joined us without question.

"Imagine it in the early dawn. That is when most come to worship." Safyl's scent filled the space. Her own taper cast a dim light, wrapping her in soft light. It was impossible to ignore her.

Baldur's voice echoed around from the rear, "Worship? What do you mean?"

"You'll see, m'lord. We are almost there."

'There' opened up before us. It was a plain cavern, carved to maybe ten paces square. Our lamp and taper became unnecessary as beams of sunlight shot through the air at various angles. Motes of dust caught in those rays as they illuminated the space. The walls showed tool marks from many hands, imperfect but adequate. It was clearly a natural formation that was expanded over time. Simple wooden benches provided seating around the outside, all facing a raised stone altar near one end. Riham took a seat near the rear and became humming a prayer. My breath caught as I took in the murals covering the walls and ceiling. Gilded in silvers and gold, scenes from the life of Jesus surrounded us. The disciples at the Sea of Galilee. The feeding of five thousand. The last supper. Jesus washing a man's feet. A crucifix was mounted behind the altar, thick carved beams showing many years of loving hands passing over it, leaving behind a soft, glossy finish.

Baldur took in the view, silent and observant. "Where does the light come from?"

Safyl walked around to the altar, staring at the paintings in awe. "The skylight above. It is enjoyable now with the sun so high. Twilight and early dawn are different. We usually light lamps. It depends. Akram and I used to crawl through the rocks above, trying to find our way down here. Father would be waiting when our heads popped out, ready to trade words. He was always looking out for our protection." She sounded shy saying that. Was there tension between them? I knew many daughters who claimed embarrassment at a father's doting, but deep inside I always felt it a sign of love. Who didn't seek their father's affection, his respect and admiration?

"M'lady, who made these paintings? Did your people?" My breath was taken away by such beautiful illuminations. I had never seen anything like it, even in the gilded books of York's cathedral. I swear, the man Jesus stared at me with his own eyes. Each one was painted in exquisite detail.

Safyl chuckled lightly, "Nay. These caves were here for centuries. The earliest Christians worshiped here to escape notice from the Romans. Many were craftsmen in the villages. It was their hands who made this place. Since then it has always been a place for the faithful to come together. It is one reason my father came here."

Baldur asked, "What do you mean?"

"Our family has led this community for generations. Joram is only the latest in a line of men who defend our people and take care of those in need. It is our faith that unites us. In spite of everything, we cling to that. These icons are one way we remember who we serve and who we belong to. They serve to...anchor us. When we had to leave Aleppo, it made sense to seek out a place where we could anchor our family."

Near the altar a large clay bowl, flat and chipped in places, leaned against the wall. It was old, battered, and plain. Seemed odd to keep something so domestic in a chapel. I picked it up, hefting it and searching for meaning in it. I heard a quick gasp from Safyl, but she said nothing. "Looks like you brought everything with you when you left Aleppo. Even something for the washing. One of your women must have forgotten it here." I put it back with care. Just a clay bowl, nothing more.

Her eyes were big as shields, but she was silent.

"Safyl, what do you know of the men we seek?"

She started at my question. I guessed I said something untoward, breaking a rule in her culture. Men normally did not speak to women here. At least, not those who belonged to another's house and not alone. My cheek still felt the sting from the first time I'd learned that lesson. In this place though, with Riham and Baldur as protectors, I hoped she'd open up.

Her head snapped around at the impropriety. Honey eyes flashed. They glinted in the light, contrast with her colorful scarf and abaya. Maybe she didn't see Baldur as protector quite yet. Her eyes said I was nothing more than an ignorant barbarian. Different perspectives, different views. How quickly they changed. She looked to Riham for answer, but the old woman was deep in her prayers and offered no guidance. Safyl's lilting voice turned dark when she answered.

"They do not discriminate between your northern...seekers, and my people. They are quite adept at learning one's faith though. We've asked the other villages and know that no follower of Allah is among the dead. They only kill Christians. They take from everyone and all pay tribute to El-Salib. But the cross is reserved for those like you and I."

"How many from the village? How many taken?"

She blushed, "Father will not speak of it, but thirteen so far. That is why my brothers are away. He sent them and their families with the caravans and asked they stay away until things change. He needs Akram and me to help with the village. I suspect he wants me close after losing mother. Thinks he can protect me. Yet from monsters like El-Salib, I know I must protect myself."

I took a seat on one of the benches. The wood was smooth, polished by many hands. I felt the closeness of the place, the cool air a welcome caress on my face. The catch of old incense lingered in the air. Safyl's sandalwood scent clung in my nose as well. Riham's chant hummed behind us, echoing off the rock walls in a gentle lullaby of mourning and hope. I was silent. Trying to imagine what it must feel like, knowing your family and friends were under such threat. Always wondering when the next would be taken, tortured, hung beside the road. She'd seen men and women nailed up and staring down through burnt eyes. Such horror. Yet she stood defiant before us.

"I see the pity drawn across your face. It hurts to think of them. But I will not be cowed by threats. Some may convert, avoid notice, but we will not be ashamed. Yet we need help. Father will not ask. He fears those who took our mother and their ignorance. But there is no one else. Will you seek them out? Will you defend our people?"

I looked to Baldur for counsel. He looked at me with his usual message. As if this was a question? Of course we would defend the helpless. It was our charge. No one took the oath of knighthood as seriously as him. It was his lodestone, his pole star.

"Safyl, we will stand with you. We'll seek these caves and wherever else we may. Pray we find them afield and can bring them to battle away from Ghmam. If not, if they strike the village and it comes to handplay, is there a place for everyone to escape?"

Wet eyes looked back at me, "Here. We can take shelter here. But I think you will find many hands who would help. We need guidance, but we are strong."

I nodded. "Baldur, may be worth thinking through some options if it comes to that. We'll see what Hart comes back within the next few days. M'lady, thank you for sharing this place and your concerns with us. We'll do everything we can."

Safyl nodded and curtsied, "Thank you. I know father will understand. He knows good men when he sees them. I believe he can see past he color of a man's face to find that truth. Excuse me, sir. I will spread the word among my sisters at the well." She departed with a smile on her dusky face.

Baldur looked my way, hand running over the altar. Dark beard and dark eyes shone in the beam of sunlight pouring in from above. "So, looks like we're staying then?" 
Chapter 9

Feminine laughter filled the afternoon air by Tishreen. The rippling waters sang with splashes and the wet slap of the wash. Colors abounded. The shambars and abayas of the village girls were a rainbow that painted the dreary tans and greys of the surrounding stone. The wind kissed their cheeks and set the cypress trees to dance. The air was filled with their sweet scent.

Several older women sat on stones by the shore while the younger worked the washing. As always, village life was under discussion.

"What do you think, Reem? Will the barbarians stay, or will they go?"

The young girl laughed as her friend splashed water in her direction. "What do I know? They'll stay as long as necessary. I'm not concerned. Some of them are nice to look on."

Giggles and more laughter. Sighs from the matrons ashore. Tinkling water catching the sun like diamonds caught on a breeze.

"The tall one is quite handsome. I hear Riham has made a houseboy of the pudgy one they call Jody."

Reem giggled more. Riham sat by the shore and glared at the young girls. Evidently her ears were still in good condition despite her age.

Safyl joined the gaggle of young women at the shore with her own basket. The sun glinted off a metallic object among her wash, but she deftly tucked it away. If anyone noticed, no one said anything.

Reem nudged Safyl, tipping her onto her rear in the shallows. The girls lost themselves in giggling again. Minutes later, and after several well-placed splashes, the conversation began again. "Safyl, what do you think? Will they stay?"

She thought for a moment before replying, "I think they will not. They seem set on their mission. Once that is done, what reason would they have to stay? To watch our flocks? They have other concerns far from here."

"No reason to stay? Their leader has every reason to stay if you keep making eyes at him." Reem smiled coyly at Safyl and her audience.

Safyl blushed. She said nothing for some time. Then Riham spoke from the shore. "She's right, you know. You do make eyes at him. You're too forward. But it doesn't matter because he's besotted with you all the same." Gasps from the older women. Giggles from the younger.

"I do not think that, Riham. He doesn't see me. He sees Joram's daughter and a means to solve his troubles."

Riham put down her wash and stared at Safyl. She searched those amber eyes for something. Finally she saw it.

"Safyl, you know better. I can tell. How do you feel about him?"

"I... I feel... I mean, he's one of them. What do we have in common other than being here together? Besides, father would never allow it. He will seek a husband for me among the families. When he is ready." She knew her place was here among her own people.

While the young girls tittered and giggled, Riham and Safyl looked at one another as if in their own dream. Even the older women seemed set aside from the pair.

Riham cracked a smile. "Child. You've always been a daughter to me after your mother passed. We love you like one of our own. You are one of our own. And I tell you this: your heart has betrayed you. Your eyes betray your heart. You care for him. I can see it as clearly as the sun shines. Yet you worry, and not for poor reasons. There are great things moving about us. Sad times. Those times have brought our people together. United us in ways we didn't expect. Give Joram credit. He is a wise man, and he would be proud of any man you chose. He trusts your judgment like he trusted your mother. He sees her in you."

"Do you think he'd approve?"

"Well dear, he is a man. Don't give him too much credit."

Safyl blushed as laughter began anew. Her heart was racing. Maybe, just maybe, her feelings would be returned. Maybe Fallon saw the same beauty in her, the beauty of her mother and her people. The beauty that drew Joram so many years ago. Could he love a girl of the desert? A girl whose heart beat in time with the wind? Pulsed with the energy of the lioness? A woman who shared his faith yet knew it from other tongues and rites? What of her duties? She had a resolution to uphold, and Fallondon had no part in that. At least, not the part playing out before her eyes.

Riham smiled back. "I see you, Safyl. You'll know the right time to tell him. Not yet, I don't think. But someday. Fear not. He sees your beauty just as I do."

Safyl smiled back and fingered the object within her wash basket. Its hard metal form was cool to the touch. Familiar and welcome. No, she had already made a decision and would see it through, no matter if it betrayed her heart.

The afternoon wore away. The sun ran across the sky in its perpetual race. The hawks swung lazily on the heated air. Women came and went, drawing water from the well and the lake. Shepherds passed with their flocks. Eventually dozens became several began none. The lake stilled as evening set over the hills and the moon took her ascendance.
Chapter 10

Restless. Half-sleep. Turning and twisting in the sheet.

They may not come so easily. We need an example. Someone to draw them out. A lamb. Where can we find a lamb?

Flocks of sheep grazing on the hillside. Whites and spotted blacks mixed together, ignorant of the world around them. Seeking the green shoots and brush leaves. Bunched together for protection from wolves and lions. Trusting their shepherd. Ignorant of any threat. A shepherd coming with knife in hand. A lamb held by its hind leg, pulled away.

Bleating.

Cries.

Blood and water flowing.

The shallow lake. Water lapping along the shore. A well, stone piled around the deep hole. Women laughing and pouring water into basins for the wash. Pouring water for the cooking. Splashing one another. Then only one woman, alone, in the dark.

A lamb. She will do.
Chapter 11

The girl gave one last yank on the rope, spilling water over the well's edge. The leather bucket had stuck again on a loose stone. Surely someone else knew of the flaw and would fix it? Get one of the men to come and climb down? Why was it always left to her? What did those girls do all afternoon? Surely one of them noticed and would have said something.

The moon shone overhead and gave the lakeside clearing an ethereal feel. Silvery streams of light reflected off the surface of the water, gently lapping against the shore. The stone well was distinguished by its dark color against the sandy ground. The scent of sheep lingered in the air after the shepherds watered their flocks earlier in the evening. No one was left now, just how she liked it. No one to interrupt her chores. No one to bother her with silly gossip. She swept her hair back and tucked loose ends behind her ears. Her shambar had fallen back trying to free the bucket. When it finally came free, water splashed over the well and over her abaya, soaking the robe and all her things.

A stick cracked in the brush. The soft sounds of the cypress forest at night stilled for a moment. The girl whipped her head around, seeking the source. A wolf? Something bigger? Her eyes were adjusted to the darkness, but saw nothing. No motion betrayed the cause of her alarm. She drew a deep breath, realizing she'd been holding it till now. Nothing to worry about. Just the night speaking aloud.

The second clay jar was filled and capped. She returned the leather bucket to the empty arm of a distaff hanging over the well. The heavy stick helped lift the bag when it was full. Without it, the women would have worked all the harder to draw from the deep source. Not that she was weak. Two jars of water were nothing to scoff at. She'd left her staff back in the village to carry the extra jar, but knew she'd appreciate one less trip tomorrow.

Movement to her right caught her eye. A dark blur across the nearby brush. Now to the left. She spun her head seeking them. Shadows were thick in that direction, away from the lake. The sounds of the night went silent, but crisp footsteps took their place. It was hard to follow, but she saw individual shapes begin to form from the darkness. Distinct, tall shapes. The shapes of men.

A strong hand gripped her shoulder. Course hair tickled her cheek as a bearded face came alongside her own. He smelled of too many days afield. A deep, gravelly voice whispered in her ear. A voice laced with bad intentions.

"You shouldn't be out this late, little lamb. Don't you know it's dangerous? There might be wolves about. Why would a young thing like you be out in such danger?" A course chuckle spilled from his lips as tears began streaming down the girl's soft face.

In the trees across the lake, not more than a few dozen paces away, a wolf was prowling. The she-wolf swept between trunks, sniffing the air. No prey, yet. Her thin coat of fur swept past the cypress branches. She was silent in her movements, padding through the thick needle beds around her.

Crack.

Her head swiveled to the water, startled. She sank down in a wary pose. The noise echoed. The sound of two clay jars breaking.
Chapter 12

"Joram, I respect your position, but understand mine. We can't defend the village without your support. Do you want this threat hanging over your heads? Do you want that for Safyl and Akram?"

The blustery man would not be cowed. We'd argued all afternoon, discussing how best to approach the village defense. He was adamant about his people staying yet doing nothing. They would not fight. He did not want fighting. It was only his good nature to provide hospitality. He wanted nothing to do with us. His opinion was thinly veiled but framed with respect.

"Young knight, I appreciate your concern, but these are my people and my troubles. We managed to live without interference before you arrived, and I believe we can do the same still. Unless you go and strike the viper den. Then we will both have trouble. Why do you insist on stirring up mud in the waters?"

"Because it matters. We've seen what El-Salib is doing. He must be stopped, and any like him."

"You mean you were ordered to do that, because it matters to your superiors? To their image as protectors, as liberators? Are you doing this for them, or for yourself? What do you get if you return and claim a great victory here? If the story is how Fallondon the Strong freed a village from the infidel? Yet, when you leave to tell that tale, what will you leave behind? A young knight trying to win acclaim in this land and make a name for himself? Is that what you are?" He tipped back another cup of tea, light perspiration on his forehead. The afternoon's heat built quickly here, and the shade afforded by the awning over his stoop made little difference. He wrapped on the table and Safyl came to refill his cup. She flashed me a silent message with her beautiful eyes. Keep going, you've almost got him.

"Sir, I didn't want to say it out of respect for you, but we know about your village being targeted. We know some of the victims are your own." Knight takes king. Check mate.

Joram rose before me. Leaning over the table, face flush with pent up vitriol, it was difficult to sit in anticipation of the storm. My face was all business, challenging him to deny me. Eyes fixed on his, staring him down with honest concern for his family. Inside, I was teetering on the knife's edge about to break under his gaze. My heart pounded, waiting.

"Who told you that?"

"Does it matter? We know you love this village. We know they are all your family, by blood or association. My words won't win you over to my view, I know. I would feel the same if our roles were reversed, were we in Breckshire and you were at my door, arms in hand, offering assistance. I've watched my father walk among our own people. I've seen him return from a border dispute that took men's lives. I see that same love in your eyes."

"Was is Akram? Safyl? The widow? Tell me knight. Who betrayed my trust?"

I stood slowly, keeping his gaze fixed. He was a bear of a man. I was taller than most, yet even I had to look up. "No one betrayed you Joram. We could tell the first day that something was amiss. To trained eyes it wasn't hard to unveil. Your village lives in fear of something more than just the war. More than bands of knights and Saracens skirmishing over piddly affronts. Do not worry over how we know these things. The question before you is this. What will you do? Will you help us defend this place, to take the fight to El-Salib? Or will you hinder us? I can as easily leave and return with a full company and place Ghmam and all who live here under martial law. It would hurt, but it might be easier for me."

"Or what? What would you have me do?" His shoulders twitched slightly. The first sign I'd seen that he might back down.

Safyl walked to his side, took his arm in her hands. She looked up into his eyes, the loving concern of a daughter toward her father clear and powerful. "Fight. Stand. You protect all of us from so much. You are the rock we lean on through the storm. Help these men, father. I know many would fight if it came to that. We are not powerless. Help them find these men. We need their help and they need ours."

Joram looked down at her, recognition coming to his eyes. "So, this is the one who would betray us? My Judas. My own daughter." Seconds passed, our collective breath held. Joram exhaled, "I cannot be mad at you, Safyl. You are right. We do need help. I hate it, but you're right. I wish it came from anyone but them. It hurts to think of your mother. I can't help but remember it that way."

"I'm sorry, Joram. I can't imagine what that loss feels like."

He looked back at me, "More than words can describe, young one. Pain you hopefully never learn of. To see your beloved cut down before your eyes, it will break the hardest stone asunder. But to the task at hand. What do you think we can actually accomplish? What plan would you propose?"

I took my tea in hand, sipping to clear my throat. The tangy scent of herbs tickled as it went down, but the liquid felt cool and refreshing. Safyl knew her way with this aspect of the household. I motioned to our seats and took mine again. Bright woven cloth covered the tough desert wood. Joram was a rich man to have furniture in his household. Looking at Safyl and her honey eyes, richly embroidered abaya and shambar like a covering over treasure, I knew he was rich indeed.

"We know of the caves to the east. My companion, Hart, is taking a patrol out there even now. If it's as extensive as we understand then we can't circumvallate the entire complex with the knights I have. We are too few for such tactics. A village, maybe, but I can't ring a valley. We'll have to go cave to cave and clear them individually. We'll need people to stay with those we've cleared to ensure no one comes back unobserved. We'll also need supplies brought to us. Could be a long time to clear them all. Weeks, maybe months. I imagine winters here are hard, but we must get to it."

Joram shook his head, "Sorry Fallondon, it can't be done. It sounds fair, but you haven't seen those hills. You could spend a year hunting them and never find a trace. There are too many places for them."

Safyl asked, "What if we followed them? Waited until we saw them planting a cross or something, then marked their return?"

"Even then, daughter, it would be difficult. We've known of them for months and tried to do just that. I've had Akram and the shepherds try following. Too tough to find a trail in the rocks. No, we'll wait around for nothing. They have scouts, observers. They would know our plan."

"Then what can be done?" I knew there must be something. Fighting in Breckshire was much simpler. It was always our neighbors, Daemarrel or Ardglass, so we simply had to turn north or south to find our foe. Here, everything was sideways. Given how little we knew, they could have had help from inside the village itself. We really didn't know these people at all. I couldn't tell more than a handful apart from one another. I trusted Joram would know if anyone suspicious was in the area. It was the only choice we had.

I heard the rhythmic tramp of horse hooves coming up the village path. A steady clink of metal announced knights returning. Hart and his men came around a building and rode towards us. They looked terrible. Sweat and dust collected across their once white faces. I spied dirt clumped in their maille, and a splash of blood here and there. Two men held lances at the ready, our blue pennons steaming in the breeze. The other man led a horse with baggage strapped over the saddle. Hart dismounted and approached in a clang of armor-made cymbals.

"Fallondon, I'm sorry. We were too late." His frown took in unexpected company. He was unsure how to continue with Safyl and Joram present. His eyes were red. Deep red. Tears still sat under them, traces of tiny rivers cut across his cheeks.

"Please Hart, take your time. We've been discussing how to manage El-Salib and the help they can provide. It's alright to tell them what you know."

He shifted with uncertainty, "Joram, I'm sorry. We rode for the caves like Safyl told us, but we didn't make it more than a few hours when we came upon them. A young girl. She was..." Hart stuttered, shook, but somehow remained in one piece. I knew it was bad. Tears reformed and wet his straw beard.

Joram motioned to Safyl, "Find the women and ask whose missing. Go. Now!" She tore across the village path shouting names I didn't recognize and was lost from sight.

"I'm sorry. It's too much. She was crucified, but only after. Best I can tell, she wasn't killed first. Not like the others. They nailed her up while she drew breath. I've never seen anything like that. We took her down and buried her best we could. If ye travel that way ye'll see the rock pile. Joram, we... I...."

Joram clasped Hart's shoulder, squeezing him hard, then drew him into an embrace. Hart was silent. We were rarely so open with our affections. "Do not think on it my son. You did right by her. No man should have to witness such things. It was not an act of man that did this. It was a monster. A demon. An act of evil."

Hart stepped back, dirty hand wiping the tears away. "I'm sorry Fallon. We failed them. I failed her."

"We'll deliver justice, Hart. Do not doubt it. Now, what is this you brought? A sack of wool?"

Hart smiled through his tears, "Nay. Better than wool. Better than gold. I brought ye one of them."
Chapter 13

Joram and Baldur stood over the kid. He lay on the cool floor of Joram's house bound up like a lamb for shearing. He was still out from what Hart's men did. Probably no more than thirteen, fourteen summers old, he barely had peach fuzz on his dark face. Akram stood in a corner looking on. If I didn't know better I might have confused the two. The prisoner looked like every other young man in this land. Dark skin, dark hair, dark eyes and lanky. He smelled. We were road-worn, but even I picked it out. Too many weeks living in rough conditions. Safyl's story of the caves aligned with what we saw before us.

Two fathers looking down at a prisoner, weighing him out in their minds. I spied a blooming darkness under his side as wet blood soaked into the hard dirt. His weight was going down ever so slowly.

"Hart, what did you do to him? What's his story?" I paced against the other wall. Plans formed and fell apart as the mental engine upstairs churned.

He choked, "I'm sorry Fallon, it's too much. I...I can't say...ye don't want to know." Hart was still shaken up by this event.

I walked over to the chair he sat in, pulled his face up to look into mine, and gave him a hard jostle, "Hart, listen to me. You are as close to family as I have here. Like a brother to me. This kid is the only clue we have. The only thing that connects anyone to the murders. He's not dead yet. But one of you stuck him and stuck him hard. I've got to find answers before we lose the chance, and I need your story to get my questions. Now, what happened?"

Hart looked over at Joram and Baldur. He spied Jody sitting in the opposite corner, a heel of bread in hand and disappearing fast. Akram stood in his corner looking at the other boy, a confused look on his face. Poor kid probably never saw anything like this before.

Jody took a long look at his cracked leather boots, shifted under the weight of his chainmaille, drew breath and began, "We made for the east like Safyl said. Figured we would stick to the road until we saw where the hill paths started. If we came upon any strength we could either fight in the open or at least have a clear line of retreat. Better than getting stuck up in one of the passes. Last night passed without issue. No fires, no travelers, nothing but us. This morning we took an early start and found the cross. No more than a few leagues from our camp. She was done recently too. Fresh earth around the pole, blood still dripping. The birds hadn't gotten to her. Much. They must have done it in the night, maybe early morning."

Baldur looked at Hart and said, "And you think you could have stopped it if you'd traveled on just a little further?"

Hart blushed, "Yea, I do. Ye understand, don't ye? We were right there. Never heard a scream, a cry. No sound of horses or men. Nothing."

"The hills carry sound differently child. I've known two caravans to pass within shorter distances without noticing the passage of the other. Or it could be they struck earlier. Who knows?" Joram stared at the prisoner, trying to unravel the mystery of his identify. Jody returned to filling his gob with bread. Hart stared at the kid.

"Go on, brother. What happened?"

"We lost minutes to shock. I've never seen anything like this, Fallon. I've seen things, done things, but not like this. What they did to her... I lost my stomach. So did most. When we recovered I set two men to take her down and bury what was left while the rest of us searched the area. Akram found the boy asleep among the rocks above the road. Looks like he was set there to spy on any who came to investigate, but fell asleep on watch. Crowley got a hold of him first, saw the blood on his hands, and tore into him. We struggled to get him under control and get the dagger away. Eventually he stopped. I didn't want to stop him. It shames me that we were so affected."

I understood. None of us talked about our past actions. We'd had enough experience with this kind of war since coming here. Ascalon was little different, though I'd like to say less targeted and personal. We were just bad men there. Here, well, this smacked of a dedicated evil. I nodded, gripping his shoulder, "It's alright, Hart. You'll get through this. I can guess the rest easily enough. Finished burying the girl, tied up your prisoner and made straight for Ghmam. Sound right? Any others you saw?"

"That's right. No others. Not a soul." I left Hart and returned to my pacing. He sunk back into silence.

A groan escaped from our little bundle of evil. The kid rolled over to display the brightness of his gut wound. Crowley stuck him good. He was a big man from our holdings in the north, the village of Waenrye. No surprise he tore into one such as this. He came from a big family of crofters. I think he had a little sister or four.

The kid's eyes fluttered. He started to whisper in a tongue I didn't know.

"Joram, can you make that out?" It was all gobble gobble to me.

"He asks where he is. I think I caught something about 'my master' or 'my father', and 'infidels'. He's lost in fever, I suppose."

I knelt beside the boy and tilted his face up to see mine. Hatred crossed his cloudy eyes. He was in shock, but he well knew who held him now. "Joram, if I ask questions, can you translate?" The old man nodded, waiting for me to begin.

"Kid, I think you're a bad person. What reason did you have for murdering the girl? Was it to punish her, or to draw us out?"

More foreign words, then Joram explained to me, "He said she deserved it for serving infidels like you. She got treated right before they killed her, like the... well... I think you know." Joram blushed as he translated. I could guess well enough what that meant. Pack of men living in the hills all alone. Young girl. Not a hard sum to work out. He continued, "They knew you were here, your men and your mission. This was your welcome to Syria." He choked back tears and anger like bad wine.

"Kid, you got a name? If you know us, then maybe you know I'm Lord Fallondon Breck."

Gobble gobble gobble. Joram translated, "His name is Ahmed the Night Dancer. He says he dances the dance of death with such as you."

"Well, Ahmed the Dancer. I have a choice. I can try to fix you up, see what we can do about that wound, or I can let this village take their vengeance on you. You took one of their daughters. How about if we let them take your manhood?"

Ahmed heard Joram's translation and tried to spit at me. Still had some fire in his gut. I stood up and let him listen to our conversation. Even if he caught no words he'd get the idea. My head spun from everything that was happening. I drew deep breaths to center myself, collect my thoughts, and give the appearance of strength. I wanted to kick that wound until he cried and gave up his spirit. Let God deal with him. Yet I knew something else was driving the wagon, pulling it along outside of my control.

"Baldur, Jody, what say you? What do we do with him?"

"You know what you must do, Fallon. You can't kill a man in cold blood. See if there's a physicker here and get him healed first. Then we can dispense justice." Baldur was surprisingly calm, but I sensed anger lingering beneath that facade.

Jody spat in the floor rushes by the door, "Sire, string him up. Just like he is. String him up and be done with it. He's done his worst and got caught for it. These folk deserve justice, to see it done. No different than yer father woulda done."

That brought some memories home. Breckshire was fortunate. In my childhood we'd rarely had to dispense justice among the villages. Most crimes were petty, and the village masters made short work of those involved. A day tied to a pole in the square, subject to switching from the boys and girls. Extra work, service to the community. I can only remember seeing father hang a man one time. He made sure the entire village was out to see it. It was both horror and amusement. Sweet meats and pies, jugs of ale passed between idle hands. Like a feast day, the people came to celebrate in a festival of agony. We had no scaffold or gallows, only a tall oak tree in the meadows of the common. Our knights stood guard as father described the crimes and punishment. Lord Walter meted out justice with a cold hand, slipping the noose over the man's head himself. He didn't go quietly, unrepentant to the end. The priests ran from his vitriol, calling curses up from Hell on those present. Father gave the word and a warhorse pulled the rope taunt, hiking him high into the air. No fall to snap his neck. The man choked to death, aided by his violent spasms. Poor horse had to endure all of it while waiting for him to expire.

I looked again at Ahmed. He was barely a man. Yet he knew well what his deeds would earn him. I looked at Joram's boy Akram, rubbing his hands together. Two boys. Same place. Different outcomes. Ahmed sputtered some more, which Joram listened to. "Fallon, I think he's El-Salib's son."

"What?"

"He keeps saying 'My father' when he describes what's coming for you, but I think he means it as family. He might not be his actual father, but maybe someone close."

"What do you mean?"

Joram looked at me. "I think Ahmed might be related. He might be El-Salib's child."

So, we had the son of the serpent?

Jody walked over and kicked the boy's hip and stopped his rolling around, "Ye heard me sire. Ye want to draw out this viper, ye string the kid up. Put him on a gibbet, or get a cage together near the entrance to the village. Someplace in plain sight. Then let the crows do their work. He'll learn soon enough and come for us. If the kid's guilty of having a bad father, then so be it. He's guilty of worse than that I'm sure. Best thing to do." My grizzled sergeant minced no words. I could trust him to be frank and honest, saying exactly what was on his mind without regard for sensibilities and decorum. A rough man, but a true man. Like an uglier, pock-marked, courser version of my father, Walter.

"Fallon, you cannot do that. Look at him. He's a boy. He's no different than Akram there, or my own boys at home. You do this and you'll be no different than El-Salib." That was it, wasn't it? Were we the same men, or were we different? I wanted to think we were better. Men of honor and right action. Baldur looked serious, but I suspected some doubts lingered still. It was likely the feelings of a father for his child. Baldur had left his boys behind to join us on crusade.

Jody stood and faced down Baldur. "We don't have time for this. Every day we waste, El-Salib will kill more. We need to send him a message. Now. We need to get ahead of him, and this is the only option we've got. Ye think he'd do different? Look what he did to that girl just because we showed up. Think this kid would do differently? Well yer wrong. He'd rape and kill every girl in this village if he had the chance. That's all he is. Ye want to wait for him to bleed out and then bury him, go ahead. Won't stop that mad man in the hills. Make an example of him and maybe it will make a difference. But yer out of time sire. That's one thing we don't have."

Ahmed groaned beneath us. His wound had opened further and spilled new blood on the floor. He wouldn't be with us much longer, no matter how skilled the hands. Was it honorable to dispense justice to one such as this? Did we owe him any duty beforehand? He was a boy, yet he was an enemy and bore us no good will. He'd as soon stick a dagger in us as smile. Under different circumstances I believed he might have turned out better. He was flesh and blood like us. No better or worse, probably. We'd done our share of less than honorable deeds. Just a matter of perspective.

Minutes passed. I settled the war in my heart, steeled myself for what came next. No one likes bad decisions, so best to harden the heart against them.

"Jody, get some rope. We have business to be about."
Chapter 14

Ahmed swung in the dry breeze kissing the hills around Ghmam. The same breeze that kissed the cheeks of Saracens defending their homeland from white barbarians. That kissed the cheeks of noble Christian knights and pilgrims seeking to restore the man Jesus' kingdom in this world. The Kingdom of Heaven, some said. Kissing the lips of peaceful women and children trying to survive in the midst of such great upheaval. It kissed the cold, dead lips and pale face of our prisoner, then passed on without memory.

Once I made the decision things progressed quickly. Neither Baldur nor Joram put up much fight. Joram recommended we use a tall tree outside the village. Most of the scrub here was low and prickly, myrtles and boxwoods, but the cedars and cypress grew tall. This one had a branch just high enough to display our trophy to any passing by, yet kept him out of the village proper. He wasn't a lesson for these people. He was a lesson to his peers and a message to El-Salib.

Everyone gathered together at Joram's command. My men formed an unnecessary shieldwall around the thick trunk of our gallows. Starchaser was saddled to pull the boy up when the time came, after which we'd tie him up there. Jody suggested we'd have a few days till his corpse would need taken down before it came down on its own. I knew the birds would announce our message to the road below. Crows circled above like black sentries scenting death nearby. They were an ill portent.

Everything happened without incident. I stood beside Joram and announced the reason for our coming, Ahmed's involvement, the punishment chosen for his crime. Safyl's search had revealed the identity of the girl, Amira. She had gone up to the well to draw the evening water and do some washing. Her parents were distraught when they learned of her loss. Her sister Reem wept beside her family. Her mother wailed like a thousand damned spirits unleashed. Hart had explained his actions to them, where they could mourn their daughter when the time came. He and Joram agreed not to tell them the whole truth of what took place.

Ahmed stood paled-faced and without protest as Joram translated my words to him and the village. It took time to say everything in multiple tongues, but it was right. No one would deny we had done justice. The boy tried to look stern, but he appeared to be lost in the pain of his wounds. I don't think he really understood what took place. The dog lay beneath the tree, watching everything and everyone. I felt his eyes bore into mine, accusing me. Baldur said words over the kid, asking for forgiveness for his deeds in this life and the next. Wasted words.

Joram and I moved to the crowd and I signaled. Jody cracked Starchaser into motion. My warhorse pulled without issue as the braided leather rope slipped easily over the branch above. Ahmed's body floated above us, finally coming to a stop. He shook briefly, but gave up his ghost without cry or struggle. Given the blood flowing from his side, he was gone before we chose this path.

I felt like a man condemned. My hard heart threatened to burst. It was as if a smith poured molten steel down my gob. Wretched, despicable, and yet energizing and exciting. I wanted him to suffer and pay for his crimes. I knew he was guilty and deserved worse. I hadn't seen the girl Amira, but my imagination left little unplayed. Safyl stood to my side, her hand brushing briefly with mine. Blood coursed hot through my veins and her touch energized me more. Her sandalwood scent added more wood to an already scorching fire. Too many emotions all wrestling for control of my mind.

She looked up at me and caught my eyes. That fire banked sharply. A question passed between us, unspoken and humbling. Safyl didn't need words to explain what her eyes asked without hesitation. Is this the kind of man you are?

I knew she'd cry for Amira. For Reem and their family. That she would rest in the justice done today, and the prospect of justice we intended to finish. Justice against El-Salib's band. But today she saw a hardened heart. A knight who would hang young boys to bait his enemies. A man capable of great evils, given the right nudge. Her eyes said what worried me deep inside. You are a dangerous man and I don't trust you.

Joram told the villagers to return to their lives and work. People slowly peeled away, faces looking back at the boy swinging from a tree. Akram stood at the edge of the crowd and stared. Tears were shed, but I suspected most were for Amira. Women came alongside her mother and Reem, sharing condolences and tears. Safyl told Joram she would go to the well to mourn. There were women who needed to go up there and they'd stay together for safety. Akram walked back to the village without a word.

After Ahmed had passed to the next life, Baldur came to my side. "M'lord, what next?"

"We prepare. Word will pass soon enough. We need to get patrols out on the road. Station pickets so we know when they come. Ask Joram to have Akram pass the word among the shepherds. They'll know something first. We must be ready for them by tomorrow, and no later."

"Aye. I'll see to it. Hart should stay here. He's too shook up to be use on the road. Be good to have Jody's help with the preparations as well. He's seen more siege work then we have. It might come to that."

"Agreed. Baldur?"

"Yea, m'lord?"

"Did we do the right thing today?"

Baldur thought for a moment, hand stroking his thick beard. Sharp eyes met mine, testing the quality of my heart. "Nothing else we could have done, sire. I don't like it, but that's the truth. Ahmed knew the risks of his life. He may not have had a choice, but he knew. El-Salib made that choice long ago for these boys. I don't know what drives him, but he won't stop until someone stands against him. Best way to end this is to finish him."

"Do you think he'll be forgiven?"

Baldur didn't hesitate, "Better question to ask: will there be forgiveness for us?" 
Chapter 15

Restless. Sweat. Twisting and tossing. Moans.

You've done well. The trap is set. They will come now.

Blood.

A neck stretching.

Rope pulling taut.

A figure twisting in the wind.

Wind rustling through the leaves.

They will come.
Chapter 16

Two days of anxiety and suspense brought us no enemies. The entire village was wound up tighter than wool on a spindle. My men were no different. We were more like the drawn arrow, held in readiness while the archer sights and aligns his target. The pickets were a day's ride out, with two patrols near the village. I suspected approach by the road or from the lake. The rest of the band helped the locals with what preparations could be made.

Jody was devious. He'd seen service in some of the larger campaigns here, coming to me only out of lack of options once a personal feud caught the attention of his lord. Amalric and I were pressed for men and wouldn't turn down an able hand. He'd risen quickly in the ranks, earning the respect of his fellows by prowess and cunning. Few remembered his true name of Jostwin. When Amalric capped him as sergeant he quickly befriended one of our own, Tibald the Badger. The pair were thick as brothers, running the foot soldiers with the right mix of good example and hard blows. His skills were more than adequate here.

The village had only one lane of approach, the main path leading from the road and up into the hills behind Ghmam towards the lake and well. Heavy scrub, trees, and low cliffs prevented easy access from any other direction. Nevertheless, Jody had each of the smaller paths between houses blocked off with cut branches, barrels, furniture, and whatever else he could acquire as defense.

He was an older man, maybe forty summers, and set in his ways. He'd taken a liking to the widow Riham. I think she returned the feeling. Word went out for homes to turn out their furniture for the barricades, yet it was no surprise that her bed, hand-made by her dead husband and unusual in a place where people slept atop their roofs, had stayed. Along with my war table. Until the last possible moment, I'd keep my command post going.

Large stones and heaps of old brick were built up to narrow the path into the village. Collections of melon-sized rocks were piled atop each building. The local boys had no trouble envisioning how that would play out. What few arrows we had were saved in clutches topside as well.

I caught Jody laying jars of something by each pile of wood. He wore his full kit now, as we all did. Chainmaille coif slung back over his balding head, sleeves and waist cinched tight against a bear-like body, he was all business. A sword and crowbill swung from his side, ready for action. His Breckshire tabard, acquired from one of our dead when he first joined, showed signs of recent repair. Curious.

"You find someone to fix that old tapestry for you, Jostwin?" I'd gotten so used to his short name I had to search for his actual one. My mind was racing with preparations, so it was welcome exercise. Out of habit I checked my own blade in its sheath. Good exercise there, too.

He blushed under several days of scruff, "Aye, I did sire. Ye knew enough, ye young stag. Man like me's got to find love where he can. Besides, poor girl's got no one else these days. She's got deft hands with the needle and thread."

"The widow? Riham? I'm sure, Jody. I'm sure." Now I blushed a bit. I tapped one of the clay jars with my boot toe, "What are these for? Are you making this into an ale and bawdy house?"

Jody smiled back, "Nay, m'lord. Surprises if they come ahorse. No idea how many there are. We need to be ready for anything. Think we almost are. Ye ready for this?" His Saxon accent remained untouched after years afield with Normans like me.

"I am. I want this done and over. Tension is too high here to last much longer. If they don't come soon, the people will slacken and become complacent. It'll be worse then."

"Might be his plan."

"Yea, but I think you discerned his true nature. He'll come for his kin."

Hart approached us from the path, dog following in his tracks. It was coming on evening, and the sun was dropping behind the hills quickly. Hart's sweaty brow spoke to his efforts today. The dog had his favorite stick clamped between his jaws, tail swinging side-to-side as if no hint of trouble existed. Sometimes I wish I was like that. The village was about their domestics, tending cook fires for the evening, visiting neighbors and sharing bread. Children played in the road, most still collecting rocks for their rooftop arsenal. I saw few animals about. It made sense that Joram would push their flocks and herds farther away, out of the path of danger.

"Fallon, the ditch is mostly done. Should help funnel them in. We've got some patches of fence restored with posts too. Hard to bring a horse through. Not much else to be done, I think."

"Good. Jody's got some surprises as well. How are the archers? Any luck finding men who can fight?" Joram said he'd pass the word among his own, but I didn't have time to teach them how to fight alongside us. Untrained men might be more liability than aide.

Hart smiled back, "Very well indeed. Most boys here learn to throw sling before they can speak a word. The shepherds are very good, though we may not get too many of them with the flocks out to pasture. There are a handful of men who hunt for the village. Their arrows aren't as good as ours, but they could be a distraction. I've set them up topside with our own. We've got two score steel heads ready for use. Good English yew bows should do fine against El-Salib's men. I don't expect they are different than Saladin's light cavalry."

Sling stones against Saracen knights. Seemed questionable.

"I'm pretty sure I overheard the shepherds wagering with one another. A spring lamb to the one who kills the most. They are motivated, if nothing else."

Jody looked to Hart, then me, "M'lord, there's something we need to ask ye. Have you thought any more on the leak? The plan depends on El-Salib learning his boy's strung up like the sack of guts he is. We suspected there was help from the village in the first place. Too many coincidences not to be. He knows how to maneuver around the place unimpeded. He strikes their own without notice or provocation. He knew we were here, knew to goad us with that girl. Do we know anything that points toward a rat?"

I twisted inside. "Nay. Joram is troubled as well. He's set Akram and Safyl to learn what they can, but nothing's come of it. We can't well put every man, woman, and child to the rack and seek answers that way. It will reveal itself soon enough."

Hart shook his head, "Fallon, what if we can't wait that long? What if the plan is compromised? Have ye considered Joram? What if it's him? Or one of his kids?"

Shock ran through my voice, "What do you mean, Hart? You think the old man is baiting us? Look at what he's lost. How he wept for Amira. Safyl's no different. She been nothing but true to us."

"Are ye sure yer not letting yer judgment get clouded, sire? She's a beautiful flower. No doubt about that. Sometimes beautiful flowers are poison. I didn't want to say anything, but... well, she's at the well more than anyone else here."

Hart nodded silently, then caught my eyes. I stuttered as my mind made its defenses. She wasn't up there more than anyone else. Surely, there were women there all the time. Amira was there late at night.

"She's up there to draw the family water, and do their washing, and other household cares. That's where all the women gather, you know that. No different than any other village, here to France."

"Have ye seen her up there, Fallon? Do ye know for sure she's not meeting someone else?" Hart's words struck home.

I didn't know.

"I spoke to Riham about it. Says she sees Safyl up there sitting by herself more often than not. Says she saw something in her hands once. Something like gold. Are we sure she isn't bought out by El-Salib or someone else?" Jody brooked no argument. He simply stated facts.

Moments passed. Silence hung about us like a cloak, voicelessly announcing the coming of night. Cook fires and lamps cast low shadows over us. The brilliant blues of a twilight sky rose above the dark hills, their silhouettes like perfect illuminations painted by loving hands. The first stars were out, their bright light like a trumpet proclaiming some great lord's entry. Announcing my ignorance.

Hart took my shoulder, "We're not saying it's true, Fallon. We just don't know. Ye can't discount the possibility. The pickets have seen her speaking with others up there. Shepherds and travelers, men and women alike. We took it for life here, no different than any other place. Yet, she's one of the few who do so. Most women keep to themselves, or to one another. Safyl, it seems, does not. Just be careful."

"Thank you, friends. I will try. We'll settle the matter tonight with Joram. We just need to find him and—"

I caught the sound of heavy horses coming up from the road. The fluttering pennons were sufficient to discern they were our men. Baldur came through the gap in the road and rode towards us, six men in his train. Their horses were spent, snorting foam into the air and sleek with sweat.

"Fallon, sire. They come. The eastern picket got out just ahead of them and found us. It's El-Salib, for certs. He has two dozen men ahorse with him. They are on the road now." His horse blustered in my face. They were certainly winded.

"Well done, Baldur. What of the patrols?"

"I sent one man ahead to catch the western patrol and picket. We can't know if he's got more coming from the west, but we'll watch and send the patrol back here. May need them to close the trap."

Joram came running up to us, Akram behind him. Both caught the name Salib and knew enough. That wasn't all though.

"Safyl. Fallon, you must help. It's Safyl." Joram's words struck me like bricks.

Hart and Jody looked at me, eyes boring into my own. Baldur started to dismount his men, horses gasping for air and nickering like thunder. "Joram, what do you mean? Where is she? Where's Safyl?"

"She's gone. We can't find her anywhere. She went to the well this afternoon, but hasn't returned. Akram says he found no trace of her, only her mother's mirror. She'd never leave that, ever. We must find her. If El-Salib's come, she's in danger."

"We'll find her. I promise. Hart, take two men and get thee up to the well. See what you can find."

"Too late, m'lord." Baldur, Jody, Joram, Hart... they all looked at the surrounding hills. I noticed it too. Torches lit up all around us. The light clack of hooves on stone announced the arrival of El-Salib's horsemen coming from the road below. That wasn't all. The hillsides blossomed with fire-light, brand after brand popping up every dozen paces. From the direction of the lake, another presage of horses came floating down the road, a slow walk as the animals picked their way by torch light. A dozen, at least, from the well.

"Joram, get your men in position, the women and children to safety. Hart, Baldur, Jody, you know where to go. It's time. They are here."
Chapter 17

The voice inside my head screamed. The voice that spoke dark things and brooded on evil thoughts despite my best effort. It was her. She led them here, opened the door for them. No, that was false. She was taken, a captive and in danger. My mind couldn't reconcile which was true. Worse, I didn't want to dwell on Safyl's loss. I knew I couldn't linger on such thoughts. No time for distraction. We were under threat and about to be engaged. Where were my men? Did the other patrol get turned back or were they already dead? Would El-Salib notice the rooftops? Would he notice the traps? Where did all those torches come from?

"Baldur, get back on that horse. We'll attack them. A straight charge down the road. Surprise them. Akram, get my horse, boy. I need everyone to their positions."

Baldur stopped me with a hand on my chest. "Nay, m'lord. We have a plan. Stick to it. Think. We never saw anything to suspect they have more than a score total. Most likely less. Those torches in the hills are a deception. They are playing with us. The plan will work. Let them come."

"What of Safyl? What if she's captive?"

Joram was silent but clearly at his wits end. What father could do otherwise? He did not share our suspicions. He only had love in his heart. Hart answered, "He won't hurt her if he realizes who she is. He's come this far and brought all of his strength against us. He'll want to make us watch. I agree with Baldur, let's stick to the plan."

It was a momentary war in my heart, but reason won out. I nodded and we broke. Minutes passed. The road through Ghmam was transformed. It was dark and silent. No movement. A lingering breeze carrying the scents of doused fires and cypress needles. Stone walls and packed-earth paths blended together with shadows cast by twilight.

The first riders arrived from the lake. Twelve horses, small and fleet, carrying lightly armored men entered through the debris blocking the road. It looked like a cart abandoned in the flight from danger, sheaves of grain and baskets of dates left behind. The soft click of hooves echoed off empty homes. The riders made for the center of the village.

In minutes they were joined by the remaining force coming up from the road. These were the fast skirmishers of Saladin's army. Horn bows and bunches of arrows were tied behind saddles. Each man wore a quilted aketon under his maille shirt. Not the heavy links like our men wore, but light and flexible. Each gave a soft jingle as their horses stirred underneath. Nickering in the dark, a whinny here and there. Turbans rested atop pointed helmets, with veils of small chain covering their faces but for small eye holes. They looked like steel-faced demons.

El-Salib was easily found. He was huge. His horse was substantially larger than any of the others. It was a warhorse, no different than our French destriers. Maybe the same stock. El-Salib looked large in proportion to it. He wore the same kit as his men, the same maille veil over his face, but his whole image dripped danger and foreboding.

He called out in broken English, "Fallondon Breck. Get you out. Where you be? You come against me, now! You took my son. I will take all of yours."

One of his riders took up the battle cry of their people. I'd heard it countless times since coming to Outremer. Our priests spat when they heard it. I laughed because our rally was no different. There is only one God and no others, and no victory except in His name. The language was different, but the same emotion. I believed it myself and I knew in my heart this man was a true believer.

Jody cried out from a rooftop, his deep voice clear and full of fire. He spoke enough of their tongue to get his message across. Joram chuckled next to me and translated. Something about El-Salib's mother's occupation and his suspect heritage. Well, if that didn't goad him...

I peeked through a crack in the door. Joram's house was filled with horseflesh. Only moments now before we'd break free. Just need to keep everyone quiet for a while longer. In the street I saw new shadows leap up. First one fire, then another, then dozens burst into light. Jody had doused each pile of debris with oil. The clay jars of course. They went up in billowing gouts of fire, throwing off hammers of searing heat into the crowd of horses caught up on the road. The ends of the road burst into fire as well, sheaves of wheat and wood catching alight. Villagers sprang out from behind their homes and rushed to fill in the gaps, closing the road in with more brush and wood that caught fire. The Saracens were trapped.

That was El-Salib's biggest mistake. He thought we were defenseless or worse, that we would fight fair. He didn't understand that my men were hardened warriors and knew when to stand in single combat and when to do everything necessary to mitigate a threat. We were a bundle of wicked tricks they didn't expect to encounter.

Their horses were screaming now, facing gushes of fire and no escape. Riders fought to control their mounts. One man went down. Then came a whistle, followed by another and then more. I heard cries, soft thunks and wet slaps as arrows and stones found targets. The fires backlit targets for my archers above. Next came stones from slings, whizzing in the night air. The first of the large rocks came soon after, a hail of missiles finding horse and rider alike.

Baldur taught them well. Outside the village, the day before he'd lined up all of the boys with targets ahead of them. His guidance was no different than what we told our squires. Fighting is a messy business. It's easy to get lost in the fray. Easy to mistake friend for enemy. You must do two things. Kill as many as you can when the fighting starts. Rain death from above. Once you've thinned them out, then we'll come into it. Remember their horses though. A dead horse is yet ally to the enemy. He can hide behind it, seek shelter from your stones and our arrows. A live horse, a wounded horse, well, you've added an ally to our side. Men and horses. Two easy things.

True enough, horses threw riders all around. These men were trained horsemen, expert riders. Yet with arrows bristling in their flanks, stones plinked off saddles and haunches, those animals did what instinct told them to. Man after man lost control of his mount, the horses breaking free and running wild in the road. Shadows raced to and fro across the homes lining the road, horses and men dancing through flames and dead bodies. A boy went down, trampled under hooves in a fear-driven charge to escape. Chaos boiled within the cauldron we'd built.

An arrow hit the door before me. Our signal. With a collective cry the rooftops ceased their rain of death. A man's voice drifted down from above, a song I'd heard sung many nights here. First one, then another, then more took up the verse. I didn't know the words, their tongue still unfamiliar to me. It spoke of power and victory. I knew enough from the way their voices took up that call. The Saracens below went into an even greater frenzy.

We'd only have a few moments to sortie before the Saracens realized what was happening. I gave Joram the signal for Baldur and Hart to lead the horses out the back and begin the charge. I looked at Jody by my side, men-at-arms pressed together in Joram's home, ready for action. I kicked the door open and charged out screaming our cry. The call of crusaders across Outremer.

"God wills it!"
Chapter 18

Christian knights fell in among Saracen warriors in a minstrel's tale of violence. Maybe faith drove us. In the midst of this carnage we were certainly driven by a will to survive. El-Salib and his followers wanted to drive us from their lands. He wanted to drive all followers of the man Jesus from Syria. He'd extinguish us like candles. I knew if we didn't stop his men tonight it would never end. More innocents hung on trees. The roads unsafe for anyone, man or woman, Christian or otherwise. A blight on this beautiful place.

Baldur's charge hit them from behind a few moments later. The bluster of our horses mixed with cries of anger, courage, hate, and desperation. Our mounts were trained to fight through flame and spear. They leapt over the piles of burning brush and became extensions of their riders, kicking and biting like equine furies all around the press.

I swung my blade back and forth before me, locking arms with a young boy who would not yield. His curved shard of steel flashed before my eyes, seeking to extinguish my little candle of a soul. I heard words filled with black malice spun at me but understood none of it. Gobble gobble gobble. Certainly justification for his feelings toward me and mine. I was too busy fending off his blows to respond in kind.

The boy made a show of force and hit me in rapid succession, trying to loose Breck steel from my hand. Breck's Bane, I liked to call it. The others laughed at my efforts to win them over to the name. I turned my shield to catch his blows. The wood shivered with power. My arm started to numb. He was in a frenzy, calling out the name of his god and hatred toward me. The moment opened and instinct drove my blind response. Arm darting forward without hesitation I gouged his side with my blade. English steel tore through his quilted jacket and found flesh. For an instant his fury escalated, my body pressed back by a final venting of his hate. Blows rained down, but slowly grew fewer and fewer. Blood poured past my feet, the parched road drawing his life away to fill its thirst. An unquenchable thirst. The boy's face grew pale as he struck again, each movement weaker and weaker. Finally he fell.

I looked over my shield, seeking my men. The knights were finishing off their foes. I saw spears flashing toward the ground, Hart leading a procession to ensure the enemy remained dead. I saw village families gathered together in doorways, holding one another tightly. Tears flowed. Cries were thrown into the air as the wounded were found. Did we suffer losses? I wondered.

"Baldur! Where are you?" I strode through heaps of flesh seeking my true enemy. Where did he fall?

The old man dismounted from the side of the road and approached. He was covered in sweat and blood, but alive. A red spear held at the ready told me how he fared. His beard was filthy, his maille twisted around a firm middle. He looked good for his age. Funny to notice that now. "Yea, m'lord. I'm here. Whither away?"

"Have you seen him? El-Salib? He was here. I saw him at the beginning. I don't see him now." My stomach growled. The smell of war filled my nose, a mix of metal and sickly sweetness. Before long the stench would grow, lingering in the air for days. How well I knew that scent. I would lose my meal if I didn't step away soon.

"Nay," said Baldur, looking around as well, "I haven't seen any sign. I don't recall seeing him in the press. Maybe he was taken down early? Under another one of his men?"

From behind a house I heard a woman's scream, the dog barking, then clashing and cries of pain. We sprinted towards one of the gaps between houses, heading up into the hills. The brush piles Jody had set alight were almost burned down. Our boots scattered coals and set embers flying at we crashed through. I heard the sound of hooves scrambling over rock and a voice pressing its mount hard.

Joram came around from another path and ran towards us. He found the villager clutching her breast, darkness blossoming across her abaya. She gasped air, dark and lively eyes filling with tears as she sobbed her last. The dog stood guard over her. Blood dripped from his mouth. He growled as we approached, but then turn his attention to the hills. His brindle coat was spiked up. Dog was bloody pissed at something.

The woman gasped. A finger raised, pointing toward the inky black our rider had gone into. She whispered one word to Joram, a name my ears caught in the dying crackle of the flames surrounding us. Safyl.

I didn't know what she meant. My mind raced to decipher this mystery. Was Safyl the rider, escaping from our justice, fleeing from treachery she was responsible for? Or was it El-Salib, holding Safyl hostage?

Joram looked at me, tears streaming down his face. He cradled his charge, the woman's end near and without doubt. "Find my daughter, knight. Save her." Dog laid down beside the woman and licked her hand rather than following us. Guess I wouldn't have his support.

Baldur looked at me and our eyes met as we turned towards the hill. "Baldur, give me your horse. I know where he's going."

"Aye, surely. I'll gather up reinforcements and follow. Where are we going?" He turned with me as we ran back towards the village road and his waiting mount.

"The only thing in that direction worth flying to. The chapel cave."
Chapter 19

Baldur's piebald horse was truly magnificent. He charged up the hill without pause, taking the rocky slope like he was born to the wilds of the highland. I dismounted near the place Safyl had taken us and ran into the darkness. The entry to the underground chapel was lined with cut stone. It formed an arch to mark the tunnel, the only sign of man's handiwork visible from the outside. Though it was night, moisture hung in the air. The natural coolness condensed on the walls, the slick sides glimmering in feeble light. Joram had explained how oil lamps and hand-dipped tapers were used to light the chapel at all times. They flickered and cast armies of shadow as I approached.

My eyes adjusted to the dim light of the cavern. It leaked in from the hole above and cast a pillar of astral-white light onto the altar before me. The moon came out earlier than I expected. The altar stood sentinel over the space. The chipped bowl sat atop. El-Salib stood before it.

I entered as silent as I could, but my boots crunched softly underfoot. I spied colorful cloth just outside my vision. A figure lay motionless behind the benches. My heart leapt as I tried to discern whether it was Safyl and if she was harmed.

El-Salib's back was to me. He grasped a bowl, held it before him, and then turned. The clay bowl from before, cracked along one edge. Not even a well-made bowl. Something you'd fine at any market, any souk, any caravan from here to Egypt or back to England. No color, no markings, no sign to indicate what value it held above others. Someone must have moved it from the corner I'd found it in earlier. Why would it be on the altar?

I was surprised to hear him speak in my tongue, his accent hard but with the words of a learned man. "You know Crusader, they claim this bowl held the water Jesus used to wash his disciples' feet? Pilgrims travel from all points to see this thing. To touch it. The roaches who infest this village guard it. They have for generations. So much respect for something that isn't of God. The true God. Allah would not abide such a thing."

"He would not have men wash one another's feet?"

"I would not wash another's feet. It means bowing."

"You think God would not have men bow to one another? It can be a sign of respect, not of weakness. Or is that the faith of El-Salib? The man who would crucify innocent people to suit his pleasures."

"I bow to no other." The tenor of his voice reflected the banked fire of anger within.

"Do you not bow to Saladin and his commanders? I guess you are just another piece on his board, moved to suit his fancies."

"I am Mohammad El-Din, cousin of Saladin, a great lord in these lands, and I stand alone."

I'd seen many Saracens before. His chain shirt lay over a quilted jerkin, embroidered sleeves spilling out below the elbow and caught up in metal-clad bracers. He wore a vest of switched plates that glimmered in the dim light of the cavern. His onion-shaped helmet was wrapped around with a red turban, but like his men his face lay behind a curtain of chainmaille. Wet eyes reflected light through two enlarged holes, but the rest had remained a mystery. El-Salib pulled off his helmet and met me face to face.

Nothing caught me by surprise so much as his age. His dark skin and beard were found throughout Syria. His coal-black eyes were no different than hundreds I'd seen. I did not expect to find Uncle Amalric's peer facing me. He was old. Old enough to have sons my age. He moved like a leopard in combat, but the deep wrinkles around his brow and behind his eyes betrayed his years.

"You see me for the first time, young knight. I know the questions in your mind. How did I become the monster I am today? Simple. One person at a time. One day at a time. Until now, when this is all I am."

"Why did you do it? Why did you slaughter them like criminals?"

He chuckled, "Why? Why not. My son was treated little different. My people knew no different when your people came to my lands. My wife knew no mercy from Christian swords. We beat you back, yet you keep returning. I would drive you forever from these shores. My lord Saladin would make peace with your princes and barons, but I know the truth. Every treaty we accept is just another promise to be broken. In time, you would infect our land, our people, our culture, and twist it into something abominable. Our daughters, playthings for men of power. Our men, treated like dogs or worse. Our wealth, stripped and carted back to your lands in the west. No, I will not see such days. If my brethren cannot see it, then I will act on what I know is right. You won't see reason. You don't understand logic. You only react to pain."

I despised him, hated him, but my heart knew he wasn't entirely wrong. So many atrocities had been committed, by all sides, that I knew his feelings were founded on truth. He saw through the facade of us versus them. He knew we were factions of men following after glory and wealth, each with disparate goals and individual agendas. As likely to war with one another over a new state as to unite in common cause. There was no Kingdom of Heaven, only a scattered rabble of warlords who changed with the decades, pressing their designs upon the masses.

El-Salib drew his sword. He held out the bowl with his other hand, searching it for meaning. He turned to me, "Do you dispute me, Crusader?"

"Say what you will. I am here to defend the helpless. I care not what faith they hold, or who they serve. I stand against men like you. Men who would use terror as a weapon. If you submit, I will take you to Saone where you will be tried for your crimes. It is honorable. I don't wish to kill anyone else." Not true. Hot blood coursed through my veins, throbbed in my temples. My breathing quickened pace. I hated this man. Hated who he was and what he'd done. No justification, no reasoning could bring back Amira, yet, I truly did not want to pile bodies in a futile quest for justice.

"I think not, Crusader. I think not."

"Then face me, El-Salib. You will crucify no more."

He smiled at me, then let go of the bowl. His face turned to a snarl as he whipped steel before me. My sword came up. The blow turned aside as I heard the shatter of clay on stone. If Lord Robert of Saone had wanted us to protect the artifacts of Ghmam along with the road, he suffered a lost cause now.

El-Salib drove me hard. His swings were vicious. Sparks flew across the space as I wove between wooden benches, driven back by his strength. Steel of Damascus was known across Outremer as the best, their smiths the envy of Christian and Muslim alike. Every blow shot down my arms like a hammer strike. He was a bull, for all his years. My shield could take no more and I let it slip from my arm rather than weigh me down. The cracked panels and dented rim were compromised and would take more than my hands to repair.

Chance caught up to me. El-Salib took the high guard and swung down at my head. My blade turned his aside, but the impact pressed me against a wooden obstacle. I spilled backwards over the bench, head striking stone and bouncing off to birth stars before my eyes. His backswing passed over my chest, missing me by a hand's breadth.

I scrambled back, gloved hands finding purchase on the stone. My back hit a wall and I pushed myself up. Whether it was the stagnant air or the waning of my initial emotion, I felt drained. Lifting myself up was challenging. So hot. Nights were cool here, but I was soaked beneath my quilted things. I'd have dropped my sword were it not for the gloves. The weight of my steel maille threatened to sink me again. I felt a pinch in my groin as my chausses tore into the fabric beneath and burned gouges into my thighs. Sword up, I faced my foe through the pain.

"Not yet, old man."

He laughed. His charge was expected. Blade before him, all his strength focused in his rush. This was my last chance to stop him.

As his sword point came in I took hold of my blade with a free hand. Twisting, I caught his sword with the point of my own and turned it away. In an instant, I reversed momentum and drove my sword's hilt into El-Salib's neck. Holding the blade made it into a lever. Using both hands I could apply significantly more force to the blow, and I drove forward with everything I could. My feet slid in the dust as the impact translated through my body. I heard a sickening sound as steel met flesh.

It's surprisingly difficult to behead a man. Unless the sword is newly honed and placed just right, it is almost impossible to take a head cleanly in one blow. Most swords just crush flesh. Mine had seen service the previous hour, catching and turning blades, striking maille shirts and steel-rimmed shields. It made a gory mess of El-Salib's neck.

He stepped back from me already dead. His body was just catching up. Hands clenching throat, eyes bursting with shock...the sounds and smells of any other battlefield. My Saracen foe fell backwards into a pile the benches. The same ones I'd crashed through just moments before. Armor and flesh broke wood planks in his fall. A few last spasms kicked pieces toward me. Then it was over.

My chest heaved to take in breath. Blood rushed everywhere. My face was flush, cheeks radiating warmth through my maille coif. I pulled the steel hood back and off my head. I felt like a baker's oven, heat bound up inside thick walls of stone. Pain began to tingle as small wounds made themselves known. My vision narrowed in, then slowly returned to normal and took in the chapel.

I stepped toward the altar, knowing what I'd see. How would I explain to Joram the loss of their treasure? Something so precious to his people and that bound them together? No one had told us what it was, or why it was so important. If the Church ever found out I'd let such a relic be destroyed, I might never be forgiven. Would I be exiled from my faith? Excommunicated from society?

Looking down at the floor I found I needn't worry. The bowl lay beside the altar, intact and without blemish. 
Chapter 20

El-Salib was dead. His marauding band of Saracens was stopped. The bowl, whatever this thing was, was safe. No one had ever mentioned it to us. Were they protecting it? Fearful of crusader greed?

I looked around the cavern. Benches were tipped over and cast aside. The altar was still upright. A few oil lamps remained lit in their niches along the walls. The icons had escaped damage, gilded images of the man Jesus and his saints staring back at me. I don't know how our sword swings had missed them in the enclosed space. One image looked me square in the face. Was He proud of my actions, or ashamed? The thought tickled my mind for a moment. A groan caught my ears, whispered from the pile of benches behind me

I set my sword down and started to pull them away. Safyl lay beneath. Her hands were bound behind her back with thin strips of leather. They were woven tightly and left deep gouges on her bloody wrists. She must have tried to escape by working them loose. A failed attempt. Her bare feet were no different, olive-skin ankles bound together with the same cord and wet with raw flesh and blood. She rolled her head to see me. A dark blotch covered the left side of her face. El-Salib had not been kind to her in captivity.

My dagger made short work of the bindings. I rubbed her wrists gently to restore blood to her hands. She looked at me with tears in her eyes. I moved on to her ankles as the silence drew out between us.

"These look like they are just raw. I'll find some cloth to bind them, but watch for bleeding." The moment stretched until I found courage to ask the question on my heart. "Safyl, why were you at the well?"

She choked back a sob, her other cheek blushing as emotions rolled through her. Caution, Fallon. Still not sure whether she's a victim or a serpent.

"I did not know where else to go. I always go there when I feel sad or confused. After my mother... after... I..." She stuttered along, single words slowly forming a full thought. "I always go there when I am lonely. I take her mirror with me and look for her face in it. It was where she took me. My memories of her are all at the well. Father does not understand. He wants me to be strong like him and my brothers. But I miss her so much. Whenever I think of the things happening to us, the deaths and threat from that monster, I just want to be back in her arms and safe. To be loved. She was so strong."

"Safyl! Safyl, where are you?" Akram's voice echoed through the cavern as he entered the tunnel. He found us facing one another in the dim light. His call stopped short when he saw us.

I turned toward him, my body still facing Safyl, "Akram, good to see you're alright. She's safe. Hurt, but safe. El-Salib is dead. Go find Joram and let him know it's finished. Get help for your sister."

I turned back to face her, this desert diamond of Syria. Safyl's face was filled with tears, yet she never looked more beautiful to me. I understood why Joram was so concerned for his family. Why the pain of his wife's loss affected him so much. He told me that Safyl was a mirrored image of his beloved, and that he loved her all the more for it. Who could do anything but love her?

Pain shot through my side as something tore into my maille shirt.

Safyl's eyes widened.

"I will Crusader. I will make sure she's safe." It took a moment to realize I understood him perfectly.

Pain erupted in my shoulder. I turned and rolled onto my butt, facing Akram fully. My back was on fire. He stood over me with a thin-bladed knife, blood lining the edges. Shock stopped me from moving, and gave him seconds to consider his next move. The knife hadn't done much damage. The links of chain were too tight to permit it to penetrate. Yet he had scored against me as evidenced by the crimson trophy he held. Thank goodness for our smith's expert hand when he made my hauberk.

Safyl screamed. Akram strode over to her and delivered a backhand that put her to sleep. So much for sibling affections.

"Akram? What are you doing?" Every word hurt, both from the wound and my confusion. The shepherd boy, beloved son and eager to help...a traitor?

"I am finishing what should have been done long ago. You people killed my mother. You slaughtered my family. You would take the wealth of my father and make my sister into a whore. You trade our lands like they are your own, when it is my people who made them great. You deserve this. You are the infidel, just like El-Salib said. Just like the voices told me. You are the one who needs driven from here."

"Your father, Akram. You would do this against him? Against your people?" Starting to get dizzy. Maybe that blade stuck deeper than I thought. Voices?

"Of course not. He would not see reason. He would not align himself with men like these. But I would. I would do whatever it takes to drive you away. You killed my mother."

"That was not me, Akram. It may have been knights like us, but that was another time and place. You would take satisfaction against us instead?"

"I would." Akram found my sword lying in the center of the cavern. He lifted it, finding the balance. Stars glittered before my eyes. I wouldn't be able to stop him.

Akram approached slowly, hatred in his eyes. I saw the young boy beneath, face just starting to sprout its first whiskers, curly hair falling back over his broadening shoulders. In moments he'd become a man.

I heard a scramble of feet through the tunnel, echoes bouncing around my throbbing ears. I caught the soft pad of dog's feet before Joram's voice burst, "No my son!"

Akram turned to face his father as a flash of silver raced toward him from the tunnel. Baldur followed in an instant later. The dog barked in warning. The dagger spun, streaking across the cavern like a star across the sky. Without armor Akram stood no chance. Baldur's throw was true.

My blade clattered to the floor as the boy grasped at the one buried deep in his chest. Joram raced toward him, gathering up his son as Akram crumpled to the floor. The son's eyes glazed quickly, looking past his father. Tears rained down on the boy's face. Joram let out a wild cry. His body wracked with sobs.

I heard movement and saw Safyl and Baldur approach. Evidently she recovered, though a bright blossom of purple marred her beautiful cheek. Baldur lifted me up and examined my back. I heard a tear as Safyl made a binding for my wound with her abaya. Such nice cloth, embroidered with colorful designs. Soft hands found mine after she bound me up. My lips tasted salty tears. Her tears.

I smiled at her, then at Baldur. Both were back-lit with halos of soft white and yellow. "Please, don't let the lights go out. It's so nice here."

Baldur snickered, "He'll be alright. Just needs some wine and a bit of rest. M'lady, I leave him to you."

She nodded and laid me back against her chest. I watched Baldur approach Joram. He knelt beside the man, hand resting on his shoulder. Maybe the light played tricks, but I saw tears in Baldur's eyes. The dog padded up to them both, laid down and laid his head in Akram's lap. His paw touched the boy's thigh, willing his to rise, but nothing came of it.

"I'm sorry Joram. I had to act."

Joram breathed deep, wet sniffles and choked gasps coming through his grief. "I don't understand. I don't understand. My son? Why my son? Why?" 
Chapter 21

A day in bed passed slowly. The widow Riham knew her way around poultices and herbs. Jody assured me that I'd come through just fine. Something about her fingers working magic. Hart and Baldur brought regular reports of the village's recovery. Everyone gave a hand, and the road was cleared quickly. Damages were repaired. The dead were buried. In the end, the village paid little to the butcher. Only two had died in the fighting, including the woman El-Salib stabbed in his escape. Our plans had worked.

When I was pronounced fit for walking I made the short journey up the hill. The well by Tishreen Lake was a beautiful place. Many years had passed here, shepherds and travelers coming to draw water for their needs. The lake ensured a steady supply, yet without the worry of silting when animals drank from the sandy lakeside. Safyl reclined on the smooth stone rim.

Something flashed in her hand as I approached. She didn't hide, didn't respond to my presence. Getting closer, I could see the object holding her attention. A mirror.

My breath caught. It was a golden mirror. The handle was exquisitely formed into the likeness of a young woman, all soft curves and finely-tooled hair cascading from her head, around her body, and wrapping around the framed disk that reflected light so easily. The surface was polished and reflected her image with only the slightest distortion.

"Mother used to let me play with it as a girl, telling me how beautiful I was. It was father's gift to her for their wedding. A way to tell her how beautiful she was to him. I could not find it the day of the attack, and thought I left it up here. It was among Akram's things." Her face was lined with tears, yet still so beautiful. More beautiful than ever before.

"Yea, my mother has one as well, though nothing so fine. She'll take my sister Brenna, sit her facing the orchards, and braid her hair with flowers every spring. It seems our ladies are not so different."

"She always told me to mind the image, because it was an imperfect reflection. One could lose oneself trying to unveil the true nature of their face, to see through the flaws, if they only used the mirror. They needed someone to face them and speak the truth."

"Aye. That makes sense."

"My brother. I don't understand what happened. Why did no one see this? Why did no one say anything?"

I took a seat on the rim of the well. A respectful distance away, of course. We were alone and I didn't want to spur any rumors should the local women come for water. Her sandalwood scent left a lingering touch in the air.

"I wish I knew, m'lady. My father says all men carry demons in their hearts. Some listen to them, and some shut out their voice. Sometimes we become distracted by events around us, or dedicated to a routine, so much that we forget to ask what is on their hearts. Your family is thick as woven brambles though. Your father loved Akram. He loves you all. I don't think he would let something slip so easily without notice."

"He once spoke to me of voices. Thoughts that would fill his mind yet not of his thinking. Like a stranger whispering to him. That was months ago. I wonder now if there was anything we could have done to help him."

Might be something to that. "Who can tell? I know this. Most of the evils I've experienced by the hands of men were the decision of a moment. Just one poor day. I've learned not to dig too deeply. Don't attempt to unveil such things. Maybe they build over time. Maybe they are like the pot simmering ahead of the boil. In the end, all it takes is one bad day. Maybe for Akram that was the loss of your mother."

Safyl sniffled beside me. "Maybe you are right. It is too late now."

A breeze swept through the valley and drew fingers across the lake. Ripples sprang up and colored the water's surface. The cypress needles gave off a whisper when the wind touched them. While the Syrian air still held its heat, it washed over my face with a delicious coolness. Such a beautiful place.

"Will you stay, Crusader? Or will you move on?" The way she asked, I sensed questions layered on questions.

She must have read my mind, for the decision lay unanswered among us. Our orders were complete. El-Salib was dead, his band dispatched. We had only to report to Saone and then return to Amalric in Antioch. My uncle would be eager to hear the story and share news. Maybe our estates would be ready for us? I expected to be settled into lands of my own once I reached them. I hadn't thought what would happen if we mentioned the bowl. Whether the story was true or not, many would clamber over one another for such a thing. If the Patriarch in Jerusalem learned of such a relic, the village would be seized.

"I know not. While our mission is complete, I fear who may arise after word of El-Salib's death spreads. We will explain that to the Prince in Antioch when we arrive. I'm sure he will dispatch more Templars to guard to roads. Maybe even his own men-at-arms."

"Without your knights I do not know what will happen. Father is too proud to ask for help. You have seen that. I, too, fear what will come behind you. The lands here need a protector. Someone to stand up for Ghmam and Tishreen. You know who we are. You have met our people, shared our meals, watched our smiles. You share our faith. Few would invest so much if they did not care."

I looked into her dark eyes, "You sound sure of your choice. Yet it is not for me to decide. I'm sorry m'lady, but we will depart for Antioch soon."

She smiled at me, placing a hand over mine. "You would be a good protector. Your men are true. As are you, Fallondon Breck. I... I didn't know..." She drew a deep breathe. "I did not know what to think of you when you came. I resolved never to attach myself to another like my mother did. It broke my father's heart to lose her. That was my resolution. Yet, you make me wonder. I... I would like it if you stayed."

My heart raced. I was close to making a promise I could not guarantee. All of the arguments my rational mind could generate were easily justified by her reasoning. Everything in me wanted to tell her words I knew she longed to hear. Courage and conviction rolled over like a lazy hound as I rose and bowed, "I will think on it, m'lady." Truly, I was a stalwart oak.
Chapter 22

The dog padded quietly across the packed earth floor. Joram's house was silent. No one was around after the battle, too busy putting things back into order. The smell of a morning meal hung in the air along with sandalwood and spice.

He made his way across the room and drifted around the curtain that partitioned where Akram slept. The corner was simple. A bed pallet and a few of his things. A basket, a pouch of sling stones, and an old wooden box. Hardly the lair of evil. It was the lair of a young boy. A dead boy.

Sniff, sniff. Brindle coat ruffled in expectation. A low growl. Movement under the blanket.

Snap.

Like lightning, the dog's jaw clamped onto an object beneath the course, woven cover. Something cracked, then more and more snapping beneath his teeth. Whatever it was, it tried to fight, yet the blanket protected the dog's muzzle from attack. He held the thing for a few moments until it stopped fighting.

Dropping his prey, the dog pulled back the blanket. The rat's neck was twisted into the wrong shape. It twitched once, then stopped moving.

A thin wisp of darkness escaped its nostril, drifting up like smoke from an extinguished candle.

Well played warrior. Well played. I wondered if the host of Beriah would intervene. Wondered who they would send against one like me. The demon's voice tinkled like the smallest of chimes. It was so weak now.

You knew this would happen. Why must you torment them? He was just a boy. All of them were just people trying to life in peace. You twisted them. Turned them. For all of that, you know you cannot win.

Who said winning was the point? I just want to see them suffer. To see what they will do to one another. All it takes is a little push, a little nudge. Then we watch the rock pile tumble down the mountain. The mind was vindictive and full of malice. Old malice. Name thyself, angel. Who will return to claim his iron crown? Who will be lauded for stopping Hayyel the Wicked One?

No pride or satisfaction in the reply. No ire or hate. No impassioned pleas or charges. Just frank honesty. I am Adonael. We will stand against you. No angels will suffer your kind to survive. We will hunt you. Forever. So will men like Fallondon. They will stand against our schemes.

Sarcasm and veiled threat. Fallondon? He doesn't know what's waiting for him. That man will fall harder than anyone. You wait and see. We have special plans for him.

The darkness dissipated with a tiny spark and crackle. The dog sniffed and went back to the stoop. Taking up a stick between his paws, he started chewing. Making little sticks out of a big stick. Waiting.
Chapter 23

Walking down to Ghmam was an emotional trial. The hill's slope should have helped me, yet my heart was pulled back to the waters of the lake. Safyl's words were nails holding my soul in place. My duty to Amalric and our liege were bonds already forged. I took the cross. I owed my men leadership. Joram's family would survive like they always had, even without me. Maybe they'd be safer. Fewer threats drawn their way.

Baldur and Hart found me just outside the first houses. From the slight elevation we could see all of the stone structures making up the village. Hills rose across the valley. Sheep wandered their sides, diligently cropping the low grass, while shepherds guarded them with vigilant eyes.

"M'lord, wither away? It's been long enough. Lord Amalric will be waiting for word." Hart was recovered and fresh, ready for our next mission. His sandy hair and beard were brushed out. He wore plain cloths instead of armor, like he was ready for another hearty meal. Maybe that was what drove him. Was he fed enough here?

"What do you want to do, Hart? Baldur?"

Baldur smiled, "The question was to you. We will follow you, m'lord. You look troubled. What's on your mind?"

Seconds piled one on another. Finally I let it out, "My heart is torn. We should return to Amalric. Who knows where we are needed? Maybe another campaign is being mounted. Another chance for glory. Sitting here in Ghmam, tending to the sheep, we will miss it."

Hart looked at Baldur, then me, "And?"

"Ghmam may not be safe. I know you are thinking the same. Who else will rise up and take El-Salib's place? Maybe he wasn't acting alone. Maybe there are more. Who will keep the people from harm?"

"Are ye sure that's the only reason ye'd stay?"

My face went red. "Of course. It's our oath."

Hart laughed now, "Fallon, we know where yer heart is. Ye wear it pinned to yer tabard for all to see. Safyl is beautiful and a worthy pursuit. Joram is growing to respect ye more and more. Things will recover here and he'll heal in time too. If yer part of that, then he'll see yer quality."

I shied away from the thought. "She doesn't even notice me. Besides, we have nothing to do with these people. Outremer is not for us. We're here for a cause, a purpose. To return home with honor and glory. Full purses and tales of deeds done well. Once that purpose is complete, it's up sails and back for England."

Baldur gripped my shoulder and gave a hard shake. "Why are we here Fallon? Is it only to further another man's agenda? You've seen the result of that. I follow the cross, but I'm not blind. Most are here for temporal rewards. Frankly, many of the Saracens think of little else. I know you came to prove yourself. To stand in front of Lord Walter as his proved son, peer to your brother and worthy of his respect."

"Of course that's part of it. We can't fight without reward. What else will feed hungry mouths, or shoe our horses?" Don't mention my feelings. He was cutting too close to the heart of it.

Baldur's hand gripped hard. I knew that was the sign for serious talk. "Fallon, listen to me. Walter spoke to me many long hours before we departed. He worried about your heart. What you might become here. We have seen Outremer twist men's souls, luring them with the promise of prestige and riches, God's blessing and forgiveness for unspeakable things. Our cause is just, yet the men who fight for it are just that. Men. Flawed, sinful, fallible men. Look at El-Salib. He was just a man. A man who let the demons in his heart warp his mind, his purpose. Akram was eaten from the inside by his demons too. Walter knew you'd face the same. He told me, each man takes the cross from different circumstances, but what each man does is purely a decision of their heart. Make sure Fallon finds his. Otherwise he'll drift along with the tide, powerful but ineffective.

"The man who was El-Salib made decisions. Akram made his decisions. Even Joram made decisions. Trying to hold his son closer likely pushed Akram away. Each of them could have changed at any point. It takes a moment to make a stand and turn to one side. Surely, powerful forces move in the background and drive all of us. But at the end of the day, each man must make a choice. Then another one. Then another. The result is his legacy."

I squirmed inside. "What would you have me do?"

"Stay."

Hart nodded. Baldur was firm as hard stone. I looked between them, "And defy Amalric's order to return to Antioch? Prince Bohemond's orders?"

Shaking his head, Baldur continued, "Nay, m'lord. Not defy. Your uncle knows not what took place here. We can send him news. Tell our story. These lands are under the authority of the Prince whom he serves. There's no reason we can't be quartered here and still meet our duties. Amalric is a reasonable man. He'll advocate for us if you ask. I can't believe Bohemond is any different."

"Do you really believe it will work? What if we are needed elsewhere? If Saladin's army is on the move toward Jerusalem even now? What if the king recalls us? What if—"

"What if ye never asked the question and Amalric never learned a piece of yer heart stayed behind, bound to a flower of the east and her family? If ye walked away without even making an attempt to fight for it." Hart's reply dripped with sarcasm yet rang true. He gave me a look that brooked no argument.

I chuckled, kicking rocks with my idle boots and stirring up little devils of fine dust. "Aye, what if?"
Chapter 24

The Breck banner waved proudly on the cool, breezy morning. Cypress smells filled the air by the lake. Above my head a pair of hawks dueled to see who could rise faster above the forested surrounds, each seeking supremacy over the other and prey below. A brace of horses nickered in anticipation at the road ahead.

"Hart, you have our reply. Do you have any questions? Any concerns for the road?"

He smiled down at me, full of his usual lust for life, "Nay, m'lord. I'll pass on yer message to the garrison at Saone, then turn back for Antioch. Hopefully no more than a few weeks till I'm back by yer side. "

A strong gust cracked the blue fabric above his head. Our hound and hind chased one another in their familiar dance. Hopefully Amalric would understand my desires and accept my decision. I trusted Hart to articulate our message and win Uncle over to my side. Our side, really. There was much for us here in Ghmam and the surrounding lands. Surely Amalric could gain assurance from Prince Bohemond to keep us here in garrison.

Hart's companion for the journey wheeled his horse around. "Hart, we should go. We can make Saone is we ride hard." Bryce was another Saxon following the Breck family, a solid lad from Waenrye. How long ago since I'd ridden the sheep-filled hills and crofts of that village? Would his family be proud of him when we returned? Would we even want to return? Who knew?

"Get on then. I saw Crowley and Phillip in the village getting saddled up. The four of you should be fine together. God speed and safe travels, brother." I lifted my hand in salute before they turned and cantered down the hill. Baldur waved as well. The old man hadn't left my side all morning.

"So you mean to go through with it? To stay here?" He stroked his beard and examined me with a wary eye.

"Aye. My dispatch to Saone and Antioch should persuade the Prince. Uncle will side with us if my words ring true. He may even join us soon. I've asked for more men to establish a garrison here at Tishreen. The road will be well protected between Saone and Ghmam." Rippling water stirred in the steady breeze. Everything was so fresh and wild here. A place a man could lose himself in. I imagined hunting in these hills. Taming a falcon or hawk of my own. Maybe more.

"Walter would be proud of you."

"What?" That caught me by surprise.

Baldur faced me, hand on sword hilt, the other on my shoulder. "He would be. He knew Outremer would challenge you. Test you not only in battle but in the ways of men. He'd be keen to see his son grow up into a stalwart defender. A strong leader. I can't wait to tell him what I've seen you become. Someday, when we return, we'll share wine by the hearth and swap tales of daring. Probably some tears too. Certainly some laughs."

"I will enjoy that, friend. Just keep me honest. If my head starts to stick in my helmet, you let me know. Wouldn't want it getting too big."

"Ha! Of course not. Of course not."

Stone clatters announced another's approach. Joram kept a steady pace across the path to the lake, his staff supporting him. He'd recovered well from the fight and his loss. The dog trotted up behind him, stick in mouth like always. He nodded to me, then his sharp eyes caught mine.

"Crusader. I understand you have made your decision then?"

"I have, Joram. Unless Prince Bohemond feels otherwise, I feel confident that we can remain in Ghmam for the foreseeable future."

He rumbled a bit, "Hmm... are you sure this is for the best? Do you not have other duties?"

"My duty is here, sir. I will not leave your family unprotected. Besides, my men are a fair hand at domestics as well as their martial duties. We'll make Hart into a baker. Baldur here can shear with the best of your shepherds. Jody is...well...he'll get along just fine. Every town needs a dancing, ugly bear, right? We can contribute."

Joram smiled, "I'd like to see that. Besides, that dog won't leave my side now. I think he believes he's our new protector. You'll need to put him in his place." He shuffled a bit and tried to bore holes in the sandy ground with his eyes. "I'm sorry I've been distracted recently. Akram's loss stings. I am still learning to accept his betrayal and its consequences. I fear the village may blame me. They speak affirmation, but times change."

"You did right by everyone, Joram. No one could ask for a better man. Akram's choices were his own. I hope he's found peace beyond the life," Baldur said.

"He will be missed, Joram. I hope you will remember the good times with your son." I hoped that was true. Joram seemed the kind of man to hold onto good memories. "What will you do with El-Salib's men? In my lands we'd spit their heads along the road as a warning to others. You may still be able to do so."

Joram shook his head. "No. We do not conduct ourselves that way. We will meet tonight in the chapel to pray for them. They and all who fight in these lands. That peace may return soon. That men would reason with one another like men."

"I understand."

"I do not blame you." He spoke those words with a frankness and authenticity that lingered in the air. He did not just mean Akram. He meant his wife, too. All of the deeds my people had done across this place.

I nodded. "All we can do is try to be better men. I promise you that. I hope we will earn your respect. It will take time, I know. Yet yours is an admiration I will strive for."

Joram's cheek blushed beneath its rugged creases. He gave a little smirk, "I'm sure. I'm sure your father would expect no less. Speaking of fathers, Lord Fallondon, may I invite you to join us for meal tonight? I'm sure Safyl would appreciate your company while she tends the table."

"I...ah..." I felt the hot flush of embarrassment grow across my cheeks. When did it get so hot by the lake? Where was that breeze now?

Baldur chuckled and slapped my back. "He'd be honored, sir. He's usually more eloquent than this, but he'd be honored."

"Good. You are both welcome. Break bread at my table, young knight, and we'll see where things go. Tonight your sword may rest. Let others watch over us and keep us safe."
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Author's Note

This is Travis A. Chapman, author of the Chronicles and creator of Lord Fallondon Breck and his company of knights. If you've got the time and interest, I want to share a few thoughts before you go.

First, thank you for sharing your time with me. It's an honor and privilege to write for an audience. I know your time is valuable and you could spend it elsewhere. I hope the story was both entertaining and empowering, thought-provoking and inspiring. Thank you for reading! If you liked it, please share it with others! It's the nicest compliment I can receive.

There are a few points I thought worth sharing. The first is setting the stage for Ascent of the Fallen. The rest of the Chronicles series is a little different, focusing on Fallondon's response to a physical demonic invasion in England. The Girl and the Golden Mirror is a short story set almost a decade ahead of my first book, Ascent of the Fallen. We see glimpses of Fallon's past through the story told in the Chronicles, but I always thought it would be interesting to go back and see some of that unfold beforehand. I have several flashback scenes in the series that slowly unveil what happens, so this story is complimentary to that. It is also a way to tell more about Fallon's time in the East and what made him into the man he is later on.

There is a thread wound through the entire series about fatherhood and the idea of becoming a man. I have some strong female characters as well, most of whom show up a little later in the series and have their own stories. But the guys are really my focus. What makes a man tick? What drives him? Where do things go wrong? What are the attributes we expect to see in our male leaders? Not so much a "This or That" argument, whether men are better or worse, but simply an opportunity to discover some of the deep-seated desires in a man's heart through the lens of story. Hopefully here and in the rest of the Chronicles you get to see Fallon's heart revealed, his desire for a battle to fight, an adventure to live, and a beauty to fight for come alive. If you want to read more about that context, I highly recommend John Eldridge's Wild at Heart or Killing Lions.

Second, I occasionally get questions about the context of the Chronicles. I like to think of it this way: I could have told the same story with cowboys, with space marines, with 1920's politicians, with alien invaders, with anything. I happen to love this period in history. I grew up playing with my castle Legos and watching Kevin Costner in Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves, running through the woods of my family's farm with a recurve bow slung over my shoulder and a hand-made, yardstick-turned-sword strapped to my hip. As an adult I still love the period, and love dressing up in armor for the local Renaissance festivals. When I do that, I don't just put on a costume: I put on an identity. A hero who comes through, who defends the helpless and stands against evil.

I'm always trying to balance realism with the story elements, and I realize I probably do a lot to frustrate hardcore fans of certain genres. I'm not writing pure historical fiction, where every detail is incredibly well researched and we see history told through narrative. I do try to be accurate within reason, adding color to the story and maybe inspiring readers to grab a resource and learn more. I'm not perfect though, and don't claim to be. My research is a great opportunity to learn more myself, and I'm learning every day! So to those readers, I apologize.

Lastly, the conflict of the Crusades is near to my heart. I graduated from the U.S. Naval Academy in 2002. The attacks of 9/11 occurred in my senior year, so my classmates and I knew we were graduating into war. The rhetoric of the past years, and certainly surrounding those critical years just after the attacks, has been heated, divisive, and emotional. Islamophobia in the United States was, and still is, very real. The Christian response, the Church's response, has sometimes been skewed and ineffective. I served in East Africa and left a piece of my heart there. I love the people, their culture and lives. I can respect their faith and their heritage even while holding strongly to my own.

In telling the story of the Chronicles, I try to stay away from hard opinions one way or another. When I research the history, it's not simply Christian versus Muslim, one side right and another wrong. It was a different time and place. Different cultures, different experiences, different motives and agendas and myriad factors. What I do want to focus on are the emotions of each person. The story of broken, flawed, real individuals. I've appreciated how Ridley Scott does the same in his movies Kingdom of Heaven and 2011's Robin Hood. We know these men have done bad things. Bad things are done to them. Both sides have committed atrocities. Both sides have shown grace and respect at times. I want to see history through those kind of lenses, to be inspired to look deeper into the story.

The scene with Akram was hard to write. I knew it was necessary to move the story forward, and that I could spend even more time unpacking it (I could write a whole book on it, and may yet). I highly recommend an old war movie The Hook with Kirk Douglas for another treatment on the subject of honorable conduct in war among men. My professional military career was touched by a French general whom I worked with who made this statement: "These people we fight, today they are our adversary, but not our enemy. Tomorrow we must live with them side by side like men. They are our adversary....not our enemy."

Most importantly, I want that to be a lens into my own heart, my motives and character. How can I emulate the best of those men, their courage and valor, their camaraderie and dedication? How can I avoid the worst of their condition? Avoid following wrong orders or bad decisions and standing up in the face of overwhelming influence to say, "No. I will not stand by while evil is done. This is just wrong and you know it. Stop." That question is especially poignant as a leader in early 2017, when the U.S. Marine Corp was rocked by a moral and leadership scandal in its ranks and the broader military chose to respond. What is our response when everything and everyone is set against us, when one stands up and says "No", and withers under the weight of ridicule and scorn from their perceived peers? That's a tough question, and a tough answer to get to. I firmly believe it begins with the conditions of our hearts. I hope I can tell stories that help us explore those things. Imperfect stories, but ones that need told.

So this is a story of broken men. The world is full of broken men, who are eagerly searching for ways to restore their hearts. It's a story of broken heroes. Every hero is broken. If you doubt it, just ask U.S. Army General David Petraeus.

I know of only one unbroken hero, one unbroken man...the man Jesus.

Thank you for reading such a story, and I hope you come back to ride by Fallondon's side once again in Ascent of the Fallen. 
