He'd figured out, at an earlier age than most, that in this life if you got a decent meal once a week and some soft bedding once in awhile - with the warm body of a willing woman to share it - then a man should be satisfied with his lot. Vincenzo di Taranto had kept that knowledge close to him all his life. Reminding himself with urgent words on those days when satisfaction, let alone happiness, was as distant as the hovel of his birth. He was at least a free man, of sorts - as free as it was possible to be with a price on his head and the empty pockets of a man who had nothing else except that same freedom.
At five, his mother had died. A peasant woman whose Goth ancestry leant her a steady beauty and gained her the attention of the Lord in whose house she was employed. Attention that got her nowhere but pregnant and cast out into the street. She'd survived, as women often did, taking work where she could whether it be standing upright and honest or on her back and fraught with danger. Her son resembled her so much there were rumours that there'd been no father at all, but that instead he must have been begot by the devil himself. Vincenzo's mother, and his father, of course, knew that wasn't so. His mother also knew that behind the blue eyes of her own ancestry was the sharp intellect and tough fighting spirit of his noble father.
Vincenzo barely remembered his mother. A vague notion of blonde hair and a few scraps of song were the only memories the woman now evoked. She was gone almost as if she never was - except in the body of her son.
He begged on the streets of his home village until he was eight when he decided that enough was enough and he might as well beg and see what there was of the world as beg and stay in the run-down village he called home. The boy was heading north before the sun had reached its zenith. Long fingers of fading light stretched across the sky as he stopped for one last look at the lands of his birth; the lands of a father he would never know. As the sun set, he turned his back on his past and stepped into his future.
In the balmy night air, Vincenzo di Taranto leaned back against the aged trunk of a scraggly olive tree and popped some of the tree's fruit into his mouth. Ten years drifting from village to village, country-to-country in and out of the service of others had taught him the value of always being on the look out for food. The fruit crunched between his teeth its bitter juice covering his tongue. A sack sitting on the rock beside him was filled with a round of bread, a chunk of aged cheese and a flask of goat's milk. He slipped another olive between his lips and grinned as he watched the celebrations in the village below. His eyes scanned the collection of huts for anything out of place and then moved on to the surrounding landscape; endlessly roaming. It was his constant observation of the world around him that had saved his life countless times since leaving his mother's village. Whether it was enemy shadows or his next meal, his eyes and senses had never let him down.
It was quiet now, but soon that would all change. Vincenzo let his mind wander - the clash of arms and spirited voices from below taking him back to a lonely road north of Salerno, on his way to Naples. It had been a cold day and he had been as cold back then as he had been hot today. But not so hungry now, he thought with a wry grin. Rags had been no defence against snow, icy ground and frigid air.
The boy he had been had curled up in the corner of a ruined hostel of some kind. Outside, closer to the road, had stood a stone plinth left behind by forgotten worshippers of a forgotten god. The boy knew it was there. He had the skinned knees and bruised foot to prove it. The wind had increased tenfold in the last hours before dusk and the old stone walls were welcome protection from its cutting bite. Vincenzo, shivering all over, teeth chattering so loud he was sure it could be heard over the noise of the whistling wind, had forced his numb hands to make a fire. Not much of a fire, just enough flame to thaw his fingertips and warm his damaged toes.
On the hilltop above the village, Vincenzo patted the pocket of his leather jerkin. He still had the tinderbox he'd used that night, reluctant to part with something that had brought him so much luck. It had proven its worth and the risk he'd taken in stealing it from its previous owner, every single day that winter, starting from that night in the old ruins. Even with his pitiful fire he had come closer to death than at any other time. And even though the fire hadn't been able to warm his body enough to stop the cold from killing him, it had still been the fire that had saved him.
A clink of metal, murmured voices, a strident command all failed to break through the lethargy of cold that had fallen over him. He was finally warming he'd thought, and feeling drowsy. Eyelids slid down over glazed eyes, warmth billowed out from within, his mother's arms encircled him - how he missed their comforting touch… and then someone shaking him, slapping his face, forcing his mouth open. He'd woken up gagging against the taste of bitter wine and feebly fighting the hand that gripped his hair, holding him up and away from the rest of the body it was attached to.
~~~ wasting your time, Hugh. Boy's good as dead ~~~
It was funny that after so much time, Vincenzo could still remember the night he met Hugh. Every word had burned into him.
~~~ it's my time to waste, Pierre, and if the boy dies this night it will not be because I could not be bothered to make the effort ~~~
~~~ Pfft! You should have joined a monastery, not the army. Soldiers kill not save~~~
~~~ And some do both. Get that fire banked. This blizzard is enough to freeze all of us. Good soldiers we'd be then ~~~
The sound of more armour clinking, dull clash of steel on rock…
Vincenzo grabbed his food sack and rolled between the rocks and further beneath the tree at the same time he realised that the steel on rock was not only in his memory. He peered out from the protective shadows of the olive tree one hand on his longbow the other on an arrow nocked and on the draw. The fletching of the arrow scraped across his cheek as he pulled his arm back, waiting, barely breathing, for the intruder to show himself.
Three taps of steel on steel forewarned the arrival of Christophe de Lacey and Vincenzo released his held breath and relaxed his arm with relief. It was too good a night to spoil it with blood. Nevertheless, the wary man waited until De Lacey was in full sight before showing himself and returning to his perch on the rock, longbow safely beside him and arrow returned to its quiver.
"You're noisier than a virgin on her wedding night with all that steel you wear, de Lacey."
De Lacey raised his eyebrows. "Harder to cut through than skins." His smile was dry as he eyed the other man's leather garments.
"Depends where you stick your blade," Vincenzo added, flicking a knife free from its scabbard on his belt. Vincenzo was a blur of movement and the knifepoint was digging into De Lacey's arm before the knight could draw his sword. Chris was looking into calm blue eyes and a placid amused face yet he knew that within a heart's beat that same peaceful gaze could freeze and he'd be dead.
"A cut here could kill you," Vincenzo said. "Your life's blood would spill all over the armour that protects the rest of your body."
Chris nodded. "A slow death still…"
"Not that slow," Vincenzo interrupted. "Raise your sword."
Chris did as ordered pulling it free with the deft movements that marked him as an experienced soldier. Vin pulled out another knife with a stronger, notched blade designed to defend against large swords. It caught the edge of Chris's blade and deflected it away. "You would be dead before any of your blades came near my leather garment and that is only if you got that close. An arrow from my longbow can pierce a four foot thick door, wood or stone."
"Perhaps," Chris shrugged. Not just a bowman, he considered. "Nathaniel is not the only one skilled with knives."
Vin shook his head and put his knives away. "I would not like to test myself against Nathaniel." Vin glanced up then and Chris followed his sharp gaze down the hill to where Nathaniel himself was making his way toward them through the darkness.
Vin settled back down on his rock to wait the third man's arrival. Chris remained standing.
"I thought I saw drawn swords," Nathaniel puffed when he arrived. There was a mixed look of suspicion and concern on his face.
"You did," Chris answered the healer. "Vincenzo was just showing me that leather and steel were equally deadly."
"Equally as stench-ridden too," Nathaniel added crinkling his nose and sniffing the air. He turned to scan the dark horizon. "God has brought us a night of peace."
"Let us hope He let's us keep it," Vincenzo's voice was sharp.
"Hope and pray," Nathaniel nodded.
Chris sniggered. "And keep our swords, and knives, well-honed."
All three chuckled quietly and listened as their voices faded away and only the breeze in the leaves and grass, and the village below could be heard.
"That's an interesting dagger you carry, Vin," Chris began, making himself marginally comfortable against a rock. The chain of his mail shirt dug into his skin even through his undershirts, but he paid it no heed. He'd long since gotten used to the discomfort of chain mail. "I have one just like it."
Vin looked at the knight through hooded eyes. Nathaniel glanced at them both; unsure of whether this was some test between the two fighting men. Foreigners could be strange in their continual test of each other's strength.
"A knight's dagger sure enough," Vincenzo said pulling it out once more and turning it in his hands. The knife he had threatened to sever Christophe's arm with was a deadly double-edged blade that could slide through muscle and sinew with little effort. Vincenzo was as skilled with its use as he was with the longbow that was never far from his side. The second knife was much heavier, the steel thick and strong. "I got it from a knight who had no more use for it." He passed the knife to Nathaniel who ran a careful finger along the deep notches.
Chris kept his eyes on the young man's face. "Friend or foe?" he asked.
Vin let his eyes roam the land around them once more before answering; the memories of his past all too fresh to ignore. "Friend," he said bringing his eyes back to the knight who watched him like a hawk. "My liege Lord."
Chris was surprised at this. Vin didn't talk or act like he'd ever been in service to a knight. And yet, he thought, he is a strange mix. Killer, certainly… as we all are… but not cold-blooded. A hunter guided by duty and honour…
His thoughts were interrupted as the archer continued talking.
"I was a bundle of rags and bones and not much else when his guardsman found me and took me in. Superstitious lot, soldiers. Thought I was some kind of a sign from their soldiers' God. Fed me, kept me warm, taught me how to fight… and when."
"And your Lord?" Chris asked.
Vin pressed his lips together and Chris thought he would get no more of the younger man's story, but after a time, the lithe frame relaxed and the story went on. "Stephen of Montford."
"I know of him. I had not heard that he was dead." Sir Stephen was considered in many circles as only one step above the 'barbarians' the crusaders fought against. Savage, quick-witted and often cruel - a necessary trait in the embattled lands he hailed from - the man had nevertheless garnered a reputation for unstinting loyalty to his men. The last Christophe had heard Sir Stephen had been far to the north.
"He was on his way from Rome to join with Bohemond of Taranto." Vin shrugged at the raised eyebrows the mention of his homeland brought. "It took me two years to get away from the land of my birth and they had me back inside the turning of only two moons." In truth, he had been too sick and weak to care where he was going and by the time his strength had returned he had no desire to leave the troop. "We travelled north from there, to Bari, and set sail for Dyrrhachium. And here I am." He spread out his arms and gave a short bow.
"What happened to Sir Stephen?"
Vin closed his eyes. "He was killed in battle outside of Antioch two years ago on his way south… to Damascus." The young man could still hear the death cries of the men he fought with that horrible day. He could feel the weight of the dying knight in his arms.
'Truth and light are in all of us, boy, Sir Stephen had said with blood-speckled lips. 'I charge you to take up where I leave off. Take my sword, Vincenzo, and fight for your life…' the knight began to cough. His hands shook as they sought for the boy. 'We fight for Truth and we die in the hands of God.' Vin sobbed as the knight's words gurgled in his throat. 'The road to Damascus is long…' The terrible breathing hitched and stopped.
"He bid me take his weapons and fight on. Many men died that day."
Nathaniel was shaking his head. "The land may never wash clean of all the blood spilled here in the name of God."
"This holy war is an unholy mess," Chris agreed. "Sir Stephen was a brave man." He leant away from the rock to rest a hand on Vincenzo's shoulder.
"He was a doomed man and so were all who fought with him." Vin took back his knife and made to stand, moving away from the others. Chris and Nathaniel watched his terse, angry movements in silence. "Someone saw me take my Lord's knife and accused me of his murder. Bohemond outlawed me without question." The angry young man turned to leave pausing to pick up his bow and sack of food. He could still taste the bitter juice of the olives on his tongue. Food is food.
A shout from the village caught his attention and he swivelled to check for danger. Ready for flight - from the past and the present together if necessary - he checked his rapid breathing and sought for a forced calm turning back to the two men that had, in such a short space of time become friends. His eyes searched theirs and finding something there to justify the sharing of his secret he said with a voice as dry as the land he would live and fight and die for, "I am the only one of his men left alive. I will carry out his bidding until the day I too meet my doom."
He turned and left, heading back to the village. Images of the death of Sir Stephen and Hugh the guardsmen dead by his side crowded together inside his head. They'd saved a half-dead boy in the name of God, taught him everything he knew. He'd fought with them, suffered with them, and travelled a long and dangerous road with them. All he had to give was his loyalty and his promise to keep fighting… all the way to Damascus.
Josiah would never be sure what made the worldly Enrique de la Salle seek out his company that night when there was feasting and celebration in the air. The former monk had gone to the edge of the village to repair a breach that had been made in the wall during the day's fighting. And he was surprised when he stumbled under the weight of a stone that he was lifting and suddenly Enrique was there, shouldering most of the burden before Josiah injured himself.
"There's no need for you to be doing this," the younger man reproved but there was tinge of amusement in his voice. "Are you trying to kill yourself?"
"If death is to be my fate, I see no reason to attempt to evade it."
Enrique looked at him in surprise but then shrugged. "I suppose not, if you expect to claim your eternal reward."
Josiah smiled ruefully and shook his head. "I'm under no illusion that I'm heading for anything other than eternal damnation."
The younger man looked at him sceptically. "You, monk?"
"Who else could be so sure? The benefits of a monastic education."
Enrique chuckled. "Indeed. Benefits such as, at least, two meals a day while the peasants around you starved."
There was a soft bitter irony in his tone. One that Josiah could identify with his own early monastic experience and he was struck with a sudden insight. "Which monastery did you serve in?"
Another brief chuckle. "Shrewsbury."
"England?"
A nod. "On the Welsh border. Of course, I never completed my novitiate. My mother placed me in the monastery when I was nine years old. I think she talked about a small bequest of land to the monastery. She had lied, of course, but they kept me on until I'd gained my letters, some Latin and a few other skills. However, I absconded before they could put their final proprietorial seal upon me." The young man looked away into the distance and smiled fondly at the memory.
"I suppose you consider that a lucky escape, Brother Enrique."
The other looked back at him sharply and then held his gaze for a long moment before he answered.
"It was Brother Ezra, actually."
"Ezra?"
"Ezra ben Saul." Just a touch of defiance entered his tone of voice.
Josiah was intrigued. The name was decidedly Jewish. "You converted from Judaism?"
That provoked another laugh. "You make it sound like I made a conscious decision to embrace one and deny the other." He shook his head. "My father was of the chosen people, but my mother is a 'good Christian woman'." Again the bitter ironic tone. "My understanding is that the Jews trace your connection to their people through the maternal line. All the same, I am able to speak almost as much Hebrew as Latin." He looked Josiah directly in the eye again. "But to answer your earlier question. I did consider my departure from Shrewsbury to be a lucky escape. There was the small matter of a pending heresy charge. There is no sin more heinous than disagreeing with those in power over you."
Josiah closed his eyes in pain. The image of one Ethiopian tribe systematically butchering another because they failed to accept his master's Christian beliefs was still vivid in his memory.
This was his recurring nightmare, all the more grotesque because it was based in fact.
He had been a young novice, following his venerable master on his glorious mission to convert the pagan tribes of Africa to the true faith. With true missionary zeal, they were prepared to be martyred in the course of their work. There could be no greater honour than to give one's life in the service of the Lord.
But it was not the terrible death of his master that haunted Josiah's soul. It was the summary execution of all those Africans that had refused to acknowledge the one true God after they had been taken prisoner. The chief of Nathaniel's tribe had embraced the dogma of Christianity. He had ordered all his tribe to be baptised in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ. Then he had declared war on all the heathen tribes around him.
Josiah's master and Nathaniel had been taken prisoner in the first battle. Nathaniel had been but a child, and yet the enemy had planned to burn him alive. Josiah and the warriors from Nathaniel's tribe had arrived in time to save the boy, but not the elderly monk who had been crucified in mockery of his faith.
That death did not haunt Josiah. His master would have asked no more than such a death in the name of his God. But when the warriors took the enemy's children and crucified them, that was when Josiah's faith shattered into a thousand pieces. That they had committed such an atrocity in the name of Christianity shocked him to the very core of his soul and it had been his and his master's words that had brought them to it.
Josiah spent years trying to teach the tribesmen the tenets of goodness and kindness in the Christian faith, but his words fell on deaf ears. They were only interested in using the faith to fortify their belief in their own moral superiority, to give them a reason to crush the tribes around them without conscience.
Only Nathaniel had listened to him. It was ironic that the boy that had almost been incinerated for his faith was the only one not willing to burn others for their lack of it. But then Nathaniel had always been more interested in healing than inflicting hurt. His father had been the tribe's healer and had begun to instruct his son in those arts before the Christian monks had come and forbidden the practice of such ‘pagan rites’.
But still Nathaniel remembered some of his father's teachings and Josiah was glad of it. It was one of his few small comforts that the tribal healer's work had not been destroyed when he had been banished from the tribe. Nathaniel had never seen his father again and that was another guilt that weighed heavily on Josiah.
Another burden among so many that he could hardly move. But eventually he had moved. Unable to control the bloodlust that his teachings had inspired, Josiah had left the tribes. He had planned to make his way back to Christendom, sure that there would be plenty of penance along the way, hoping that the journey would even kill him. If it had not been for Nathaniel's faithful but misguided friendship, it probably would have. And that was a pity. Death would have been much more preferable.
"Are you all right?"
Josiah opened his eyes at the sound of the other man's voice. Enrique (or rather Ezra) looked at him with a touch of concern and a lot of curiosity. Josiah forced a smile.
"I'm fine. So, tell me what happened when you escaped the clutches of the abbot of Shrewsbury."
Ezra, Josiah thought that the name suited him better, grinned too. "I fell on my feet. I managed to make my way to Leicester where I made contact with Mother again. At that time, she was bestowing her favours on a minor nobleman of the county whom she managed to persuade to take me on as a squire. He taught me the rudiments of swordplay and horsemanship. I also picked up a few other skills from his men-at-arms."
"Those sound like good times."
"Indeed. It was easily the most pleasant three years of my life. Sir Cedric became quite fond of me. He even asked me to tutor his daughter in Latin. She was an exquisite pupil."
The beatific smile that crossed the young man's face was contagious and Josiah almost laughed aloud at the folly of Sir Cedric in arranging the private tuition of his daughter.
"Exquisite?" he queried.
"Rapturous," Ezra clarified. "Of course, when her father discovered us, I was forced to seek a home elsewhere. Fortunately, he forgave Mother for introducing me into the household. I expect she was at her most persuasive. She remained with him until his death, the following year."
A soft sound of movement behind them caught their attention and as they swiftly turned, Ezra drew his dagger.
"Come out into the firelight where we can see you," he ordered.
The boy who appeared was approximately eight or nine years old. Josiah knew he was one of the village children but didn't recognise him. Ezra did.
"What were you doing back there, Daoud?"
The child looked a little uncertain, but then straightened his shoulders and looked Ezra in the eye.
"I was looking for you. I have something to tell you."
"Very well. What is it?"
The boy looked at Josiah and shook his head. "Just you," he said to Ezra.
The two men exchanged glances before Ezra smiled at the boy. "All right, Daoud. We'll leave the Holy Father to his meditations." And after another wry smile to Josiah, he followed the boy to another part of the village.
The attack came with the thin blue dawn. Most of the villagers were still half asleep, the seven protectors spread out. Will and Jean just waking. Josiah sunk in exhausted repose, Nathaniel dozing by his side; Enrique presumably somewhere along the village wall. Christophe and Vincenzo were standing by the remains of the night's watchfire, mugs half-full of a local bitter brew.
Christophe had just taken a sip of the hot drink, frowning as the liquid burned all the way down to his gullet, when one of the villager's, Raschid, came racing up to them.
"They are here! They are here!" he yelled loud enough to rouse a still somnolent Nathaniel. The Ethiopian healer had slept fitfully through the night in the corner of the tiny hut where Josiah lay resting. He raised his head, feeling dry and woolly, and reached for a goatskin of water.
"The bandits are at the boundary!"
Chris and Vin emptied their mugs into the fire as the first cries from the wall reached them. The few villagers that guarded the makeshift fortification had no chance against the renegade force.
"Where's Enrique?" Christophe demanded, as Raschid reached them. Last night, he had appointed both de la Salle and Raschid as the nightwatch over the village defences.
Raschid shrugged. "I have not seen him for hours.
The ex-Templar swore under his breath before giving his orders.
"Vin, get down there and hold them off for as long as possible. We'll set up a second attack line at Ishmael's hut. Don't wait too long to fall back. Raschid, rouse the rest of the village."
The Italian archer nodded curtly and left. The Moslem villager fairly scurried to perform his task. A dawn attack was unexpected and they were vulnerable. The complement of villagers at the boundary wall was minimal. Just another fifteen minutes and a full force of newly trained pikemen would have been at the ready. Another ten minutes and he would have been back on duty himself, up at his olive tree surveying the landscape as the sun rose. The renegades had chosen a perfect time to attack. Too perfect, Vincenzo thought. And that place at the wall where Raschid had come from, the place where they were attacking. It was the village defences' weakest point. Again, too perfect.
De Lacey's thoughts, in between sending out orders to his men and rallying the rest of the village, followed a similar pattern to the young bowman. Suspicion unfurled in his mind. Unexpected attack was not a new experience to the ex-Templar but it was not common either. Rare was the occasion when anybody could take Christophe de Lacey by surprise and he would have bet his father's fortune, if it still existed, that the renegades would not be sufficiently organised to have recovered enough to plan this second attack. Either their leader was smarter than de Lacey gave him credit for or they had been given the information. Perhaps both, he muttered under his breath as he again wondered where de la Salle had gotten to.
A sudden lull in sound from the direction of the wall had Christophe's instincts screaming. The bandits had broken through! This was it! Their last defence. If the bandits were allowed to overtake the village then all would be lost - for everyone.
Will ran down to the fortifications built to protect the village. Their design was simple, but deadly. The walls ran across the path up to the village, but to reach them the enemy would have run a gauntlet past other walls erected and camouflaged between rocks and trees. Each section of these walls had been adapted in the same way as the main one that protected the village proper. Holes created in them, through which someone hiding on the other side could point and stab with a lance or pike.
It was an excellent plan and would have succeeded in keeping the bandits away from the village at any other time. But there were too many bandits and not enough villagers. Even Vincenzo's arrows, swift and silent, could not hold back the enemy for long and Will had barely reached the wall when the renegades overran it in a tidal wave of brute strength and numbers. The rocks crumbled, and for a horrifying moment, all was quiet as the villagers recognised their doom and the bandits their victory. A roar erupted from the attackers as they surged through the breach and on to the village. Will cursed, drew his sword and ran to meet them, but one man could not hold back an army, and as Vincenzo's deadly arrows from above came to a stop, Will found himself cornered against the remains of the walls and fighting for his life.
Vincenzo knew he had only seconds to reach his position above the wall and begin his attack. Spare arrows had been hidden amongst the rocks for the archers, but Vin doubted they would be reached in time. He scurried over the boulders and through the scrub bushes that had been piled across the narrow tracks. It was still dark amongst the rocks, the sun not high enough to chase away the long shadows that would hide his position from the enemy below. He was thankful for small mercies as he moved into position, pulled a handful of arrows from his quiver and thrust them into the sparse earth at his feet. The Christian marauders were nearly through the gauntlet. The few men behind the walls had stopped a good number of the bandit footsoldiers - their bodies slowing the attack down a little - but they were too few. Vin notched his first arrow, narrowed his eyes in concentration and let it fly soundlessly into the melee below. He quickly followed with another and another in a smooth fluid motion that gave the impression of a half dozen archers instead of just one.
The Italian ran out of arrows just as the marauders broke through the final wall before the village. He cursed viciously in his native tongue, left his now useless bow resting against a rock and retraced his steps back down to where the bandits rushed past on their way to Ishmael's hut and the village's last line of defence.
It was just as Daoud had said. The entrance was crudely masked by some fallen rocks and branches, as was the sentry they had posted who was hiding behind a large shrub. And after briefly scouting around, Ezra was certain that single sentry was the only guard posted.
Daoud's information had been invaluable. But his company had been somewhat of a hindrance. It had taken Ezra almost an hour to convince the boy that he couldn't accompany him on this expedition, and once Ezra had caught him following and had to escort him at least part of the way back. He hoped the child had heeded his warning this time. He appreciated the enthusiasm but this venture was simply too dangerous to have a child involved.
He tried to shake the vague feeling of guilt he had, by promising to share some of the proceeds of the venture with Daoud. Of course, Ezra would take the majority share. After all, he was the one taking the majority of the risk.
The sentry turned slightly toward him and, less than ten feet away, Ezra froze momentarily. When the sentry turned away again, he abandoned stealth in favour of a quick disposal of the threat. In three quick strides, he came up beside the man and slipped a hand over his mouth and a dagger between his ribs. The struggles lasted less than a few seconds. Ezra knew where to aim in striking for the heart.
He dragged the man's body into the entrance of the cave, still checking for any other movement in the vicinity. If any others were to return to the cave, he didn't want the body to alert them to the presence of an intruder. There was some form of light source inside the cave. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the relative darkness, but then he could make out a torch flickering dimly in the distance and cautiously made his way toward it.
The passageway he found himself in was extremely narrow, barely wide enough for a grown man to pass through. And even as he gingerly made his way along it, he felt his shoulder brush against one of the support timbers and a light rain of gravel landed on his head. This environment was definitely not for those wary of confined spaces.
However, when he reached the flickering torch he had seen from the entrance, he found that the passage opened out into a cavern of considerable size. He caught his breath. In the meagre light, he could just discern the sleeping bodies of five...no, six men. They slept with their weapons in their hands, obviously planning to be able to fight as soon as they awakened.
And beyond them, something glittered dimly. Even though the light was poor, Ezra's practiced eye could detect the unmistakable pattern of coins strewn on the ground. A few jewel-encrusted trinkets were also present. The other articles were harder to identify but he was prepared to wager that they were also of considerable value. Such a hoard might not buy the ransom of a king, but it would certainly set someone like Ezra up to live comfortably for the rest of his days.
He just needed a minute or two to think of a way to dispose of all these sleeping killers without rousing them, and then another few moments to devise a way of transporting his spoils away, quickly and efficiently.
But then, a totally unexpected sound faintly reached his eyes. The rough curses of Christian men approaching the entrance of the cave, accompanied by the protesting cries of a Moslem child. Ezra silently offered up his own set of curses. As quickly as he dared, he made his way to the entrance of the cave, pausing just inside the opening to assess the situation before he was forced to plunge straight in.
It was fortunate that the child was putting up such a struggle. Although they were cursing, both his captors were clearly enjoying the display and the boy's futile effort had captured their full attention. Again swiftness was called for over subtlety.
Ezra darted forward and planted one foot in the middle of the back of one of the men, simultaneously slicing at the other with his sword. The first tumbled to the ground and rolled a little way down the ground's slight incline. The second clutched at the gash on his left arm but then, with an enraged roar, slashed at Ezra with his own weapon. But with the advantages of both foreknowledge and his natural dexterity, Ezra easily evaded the blow. He brought his blade up quickly from where it had touched the ground between his opponent's legs and delivered a deep cut where the leg and torso were joined. Blood spurted and the man fell backwards with another feral scream.
There was no time to contemplate strategy. The other enemy had regained his feet and charged Ezra with his own roar of fury - all furore and no technique. Ezra neatly sidestepped and brought his sword up to slit his opponent's throat as he sped passed. The only sounds he produced then were a gurgling moan and a satisfying thud as he hit the ground.
Ezra glanced back at the other fallen man. He had already bled his life out from the leg wound. Both threats disposed of. But there was still the sound of angry men's voices in the air, which informed Ezra that the others within the cave had awoken.
He risked a brief glance to check on the boy. It was Daoud, as he'd suspected. But he had to get to the entrance of the cave before any of those men got outside. Thank God for the narrowness of that passageway!
When Ezra reached the entrance and looked inside, he could no longer see the torchlight. It had to be blocked from his view by the bodies of the men trying to exit the cavern. They were still someway down the tunnel though, from the sound of their voices, and Ezra decided to take a risk.
He swiftly took a few steps inside, as far as he dared. And with as much momentum as he could muster in the confined space, swiped with his sword at the nearest support timber. There was a slight creaking rumble and he heard a note of panic enter the voices in the darkness. It seemed that panic caused them to be rash in their movements because he heard another, louder crack from a timber further inside the tunnel.
At that point, his mind screamed at him to flee the enclosed space and he obeyed without hesitation. He exited the tunnel with such momentum that he tripped at the entrance and tumbled away some distance down the incline. An almighty crashing sound met his ears and then some rocks and gravel followed him down the slope. He pushed himself up into a kneeling position and turned back toward the cave.
It had been totally sealed off. Rocks were still falling and some dust billowed from the entrance. Ezra could see that, just beyond that point, enough stones and other debris were in place to block the opening completely. There was no sound from within and he knew that the rockfall had left no survivors.
Hence, he almost jumped when a hand fell onto his shoulder. He looked up to see Daoud, clearly just as startled by his reaction as he had been by the unexpected touch.
"What in the name of God Almighty did you think you were doing?" Ezra shouted, causing the boy to really flinch. He already had tears streaming down his face and now he shook his head, unable to speak. The child looked just about ready to run.
Ezra tried to contain the anger, knowing that it was partially due to the fear of what had nearly occurred. Both he and the boy had nearly been killed. And he wanted to know why, but he could see that the child was frightened enough already and nearly at breaking point.
The irate man managed to lower his voice. "Why aren't you back at the village? You could have been killed."
Daoud was still having trouble speaking. "Almost..." he whispered.
Ezra blinked, in spite of his fury. "Almost?"
"Village...almost..."
"You almost made it back to the village?"
Daoud gave the slightest of nods then turned his gaze to look at the two dead bodies.
Ezra followed his gaze. "Who are they? No, never mind that. I think I know who they are. Why were they bringing you here?"
Daoud turned back to Ezra and shrugged before the fear and confusion overcame him completely. Ezra put his hands on the child's shoulders to steady him as sobs wracked his tiny body.
"Don't know...lots of men...found me," Daoud stuttered. "Asked many questions...made me answer...where the wall...where you told me not go...where it's too dangerous...easy to get through...and where us children...were told to hide...during fighting..."
"Oh, God," breathed Ezra and the child became incoherent with grief again. "But why bring you here?" Ezra wondered aloud.
"Two sent for...more men...said they'd...have fun with me...don't know..."
Ezra drew the child into an embrace, trying to quieten him. Better that Daoud never discovered what those two men had intended.
"Sorry," the boy mumbled, forlornly.
"It's all right."
"But I told them...everything."
"No, not everything. You didn't tell them to expect me here and for that I am eternally grateful."
"Only because...they didn't ask me."
"Nonetheless, it provided us with a crucial advantage."
"So, what are we...how can we...the village."
And Ezra wished he had an answer