Countdown to Armageddon

Author:Edward M. Lerner
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Wildside Press
Published: 2010-10-14T16:00:00+00:00

NORTHERN AQUITAINIA, 730

The trek must be coming to an end.

In their first days of captivity, the fierce Arab and Berber warriors had beaten Harry and Terrence for making any sound, even an unmuffled cough or sneeze. Now their captors chatted, entirely at ease. Something in what seemed to Terrence a trackless wilderness must have denoted a border, a sign of safe haven. The Arabic in which they spoke so volubly told him nothing.

“Let me do the talking,” Terrence warned.

Ahmad, the leader, scowled at Terrence but said nothing. When he chose, Ahmad spoke passable, if broken, Frankish.

Harry didn’t question the whispered advice; he remained numb from the shock of their capture. His protestations that they were mere jongleurs, traveling entertainers, had been met with a sneer and a pointed glance at their swords.

Shortly after Terrence’s hissed entreaty, an avian trill sounded from ahead. Ahmad raised his hands and warbled back a reply. Some destination was close.

They came to a field dominated by what must once have been a Roman country villa. The fine, large windows in its stone walls were bricked up except for slits for the firing of arrows. Beyond a graceful gateway, in the wide central courtyard, scimitars clanged loudly as warriors drilled.

With his heels, Ahmad jabbed his fine white Arabian in the ribs. It trotted smartly forward to the center of the courtyard. “Gamal,” he called. “Gamal Abdul Salah-ad-Din. I bring you gifts.” Ahmad’s words echoed from the whitewashed plaster walls. He urged his prisoners forward with the flat of his sword.

An Arab of slight build stepped from the shade at the far end of the courtyard.

Terrence squinted into the sun to see the man; at first he could only make out a close-cropped black beard. As a passing cloud threw its shadow over the courtyard, a chill ran down Terrence’s spine. He knew that face; he had seen it on Interpol photos.

The one these warriors called Gamal was Abdul Faisel.

The horses of both troops felt the tension. Bertchramm tried to calm his mount with a gentle pat of the hand, the pressure of his knees. The horse snorted, but settled down. All around him, men strove to quiet their own steeds.

“I tell you, we tracked those Saracen dogs here.”

Bernhardus, chief of the Aquitainian border patrol, waved in dismissive contempt. “And I tell you, we would know if an armed band had passed here. Count Odo guards his borders well.”

“They slaughtered everyone at the monastery of St. Charibert.” No response. “They broke into the crypt and disturbed the bodies.”

Aquitainians murmured in disgust and horror. Many among them—and among the Franks as well—still had mixed feelings about the new ways. Where the dead and their spirits were concerned, most thought it was wisest to take no chances. One placated the old gods even as he buried according to the customs of the new God. To disturb the final resting places of the monks, without even the lure of grave goods to steal, was a blasphemy beyond greed and politics.

“Silence!” The Aquitainians stopped their muttering and looked uneasily at their leader.

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