The Djinn (The Order of the Knightshades Book 1)

by J. Kent Holloway

  But the would-be Caliph seemed unconcerned. “Fine by me,” he laughed as he arrogantly strode toward the door. His hashshashin, not nearly as confident, hung back. “We have what we’ve come here for. We’ll allow you and your heathen brother to die however you see fit.”

  It was the Djinn’s turn to laugh now—a deep-throated, wet chuckle as he pulled his hand away from his abdomen, reached into his cloak, and pulled out a round, shiny object. It looked to Gregory like a ring. But that made no sense. Solomon’s ring had been inside the chest. He’d seen it with his own eyes.

  Al-Dula’s eyes expanded at the sight. “What is that?” he asked, digging into Gregory’s pouch, pulling out the gold chest and opening it. A gasp hissed from his open lips. “It’s not here!”

  “I do not understand,” Emir said. “I watched you from the shadows. I saw the ring when you opened the chest myself. It was still inside when you gave it to the baron.”

  The Djinn’s laughter increased to near hysterical proportions. It was the insane, almost manic laughter of a man who knew he was about to die—but would be victorious nonetheless.

  “Have you not heard, assassin?” the Djinn cackled. “I’m a thing of magic. It is mere child’s play to conjure an item from a box.” Then suddenly, his glee shifted to a somber silence. “You shall not have this evil ring. I will take it with me to the grave.” He paused a final time, then spoke again. “Now, run.”

  He then dropped the torch into the opened barrel, which immediately erupted in great swell of flame. Al-Dula, who was closest to the door, bolted toward freedom. His servant, Emir, lunged toward the Djinn in a last ditch effort to wrest the arcane artifact from his enemy’s grasp.

  Gregory watched all this with quiet detachment. His time was nearing its end.

  Of course, he knew this had been his brother’s plan the entire time. It was the only way to destroy his precious golems. To bury them forever in the cavern below his homestead. He also knew that William had given him the empty box in hopes that he would escape the fate that he’d set for himself. In the end, the Djinn had tried to save even him.

  Yes, he thought. Father would be proud…as am I.

  And Gregory De L’Ombre, closing his eyes to the sound of battle and the crackling of fire, thought about his beautiful daughter…remembered his loving wife…and prayed to a God he’d abandoned years before until he was no more.

  EPILOGUE

  A.D. 1190 – Cairo, Five years later

  Al-Dula ibn Abdul’s lungs heaved violently against his chest as his bleeding bare feet pounded against the cobblestone street. He wasn’t sure how much further he could go. He’d already been running since sunset and now it was nearly midnight. The Saracen warlord knew he had to find shelter, fast, from the demon.

  The demon. He’d believed the creature had died…nothing more than a mere leper dressed as an ancient spirit. He’d even watched, from the safety of a desert dune, as the subterranean explosion had shook the entire encampment. He’d seen the man’s friends set the remains of his estate ablaze, in hopes that even without a body, his spirit would be lifted up to the heavens. He was certain the man was dead. But two years ago, shortly after Saladin conquered Jerusalem, liberating it from the infidels, stories of the Djinn and its demonic army resurfaced.

  Since that time, the creature and its Knightshades, as its army was called, seemed bent on finding Al-Dula. No matter where he settled, the demon would soon follow, as if some invisible force guided the Djinn on its quest. The skill and manner in which it had hunted him, Al-Dula was beginning to believe it truly was a spirit sent from Allah as punishment for his sins.

  A piercing, unearthly howl erupted from somewhere behind him, snapping him out of his reverie and urging him forward. The cry that sailed through the winds of the autumn Cairo night could not possibly be human. A sliver of ice slid down the back of his neck, his body shaken by uncontrollable spasms.

  Coming to the corner of a house built from desert sand and hardened by years of the blistering sun, Al-Dula peered around, looking for signs of his pursuer. A plan was forming in his brain. He had to rest first. Just a few minutes was all he would need. Then, he would make his way to Shefara’s Pub and hide away in one of the rooms on the second floor. Al-Nafani’s men would be there. They would keep him safe. Secure. Nothing—not even a spirit of vengeance sent by Allah himself—would be able to slip past those nomadic warriors.

  Catching one more breath, the Saracen sprinted across the street, moving onto a horse trail of dirt and droppings. The pub was only two more blocks away. He craned his head, listening. Nothing. No more inhuman howling. Not even the sound of feet padding the rooftops above, as he had heard only a half a mile before. Perhaps the creature had given up. He might have actually lost the Djinn in the maze-like streets of Cairo.

  He darted in and out of the shadows without incident until he came to Shefara’s Pub. He slipped quietly through the oak doors and up to the bar where Shefara scrubbed away at the filth clinging to the bottom of one of her mugs. She gave him a curt glance of acknowledgment and continued at her task.

  “Shefara, is Al-Nafani here?” he demanded, breathing heavily and wiping away the perspiration that dotted his forehead. His tunic and robes were soaked with sweat. His portly frame was not meant for such a run. His eyes scanned the room nervously.

  Shefara looked up at the warlord and smiled. The few teeth remaining in her mouth were blackened and stained with disease.

  “He’s here, all right,” she said as she chipped away at some hardened mass on the edge of a wooden goblet. “But I expect he’s in no mood to be seeing you tonight, Al-Dula.”

  Al-Dula understood what she meant. After Saladin’s victory of the westerners, men such as Al-Nafani and Al-Dula were now wanted for treason against the great warrior who’d liberated the Holy City in the name of Allah and unified the people. For the two of them to be seen together, would be the same as screaming their intentions of overthrowing their new Sultan.

  But the Saracen had more immediate concerns at the moment. The Djinn would track him down sooner or later. He needed a place to hide…to think about his next move and he needed protection to do it. His own men had been slaughtered by the creature and his demon army earlier that night. Only he had survived to fight another day. But it would mean little if he could not procure the protection he needed. Thankfully, Al-Nafani was as mercenary as anyone could be. For the right price, he would offer up his men no matter what the Sultan thought.

  “I do not care of your opinion, woman!” he said, tossing a silver coin on the bar. “Get him. Bring him to my room.”

  Without waiting for a response, Al-Dula darted up the rickety staircase and plowed into the bedchamber he’d hired on retainer. He slammed the door shut, barred the door, and dropped to the thin mat on the floor used for sleeping.

  Finally, with some modicum of safety, he reached into a pouch around underneath his robes and removed the metal cylinder containing the Sefer Yetzirah, the Book of Creation. In the five years since coming into possession of the scroll, he’d only recently managed to find someone capable of translating the ancient Hebraic text. But he’d never been able to get the book to the old man long enough for a full translation to be conducted. Every time he came close, the Djinn would appear and force him on the run once more. It was maddening.

  He attempted to stifle a chuckle at the irony—the two objects that would have given him an invincible army strong enough to overthrow that pompous braggart Saladin, and one was buried in a collapsed cavern under tons of rock and the other was, well, unreadable to him. His fingers mindlessly traced the intricately carved relief along the side of the scroll’s container in his hands.

  He stashed the Book away in his robes when footsteps scrambled in front of his door. His heart raced as he drew his dagger carefully from the sheath tucked into his belt. Strong fists pounded against the door.

  “Let me in, you traitorous dog!” commanded the bark-like voice of Al-Nafani. “I have
n’t got all night. There’s still ale to drink and women to see to.”

  The Saracen scrambled to his feet and rushed to open the door. Ushering his guest in, he scanned the corridor outside and secured his room once again. Taking a deep breath, he turned to face the man he was about to trust his life with…a man who had always hated and despised him.

  “I need your help,” he said, staring his one-time enemy in the face. “And I’ll pay handsomely for it.”

  ****

  Al-Dula felt secure for the first time that night, nestled in his bedchamber with four armed guards just outside the doorway. His window was now barred from the outside with iron grating. Al-Nafani’s best men lay in bunks downstairs in the tavern area. And nearly one hundred other mercenaries kept watch outside in the city streets. Al-Nafani’s services did not come cheap, but the fee was well deserved.

  The Saracen peered through the bars of his windows at the street. The sun would be up in three hours and he praised Allah for that. Spirits such as the Djinn tended to avoid direct daylight and he would once again be able to slip away safely. Only a few more hours and he’d be free once more.

  His thumb absently caressed the smooth contours of the scroll as he watched one of the mercenaries scampering for the cover of shadow across the stone paved street. If only I’d recovered the ring, he thought. I’d be able create my own army of golems and the demon would never be able to come near me again.

  Al-Dula crouched down and found his place on the bed mat in the complete darkness of the room. He knew he shouldn’t sleep. Though he faced a long day ahead and would need some rest, sleep was simply out of the question. His eyes closed only a few seconds before he felt the siren song of sleep creeping up on him. He knew it was a mistake, but he’d been awake for so long now. The mercenaries were on watch. What harm could there be in just a few minutes slumber? His thoughts trailed off as the oblivion of dreams engulfed him.

  His eyes snapped open with a start. A warm, red glow broke through the barred windows, casting a symphony of shadows that danced to the rhythm of Al-Dula’s beating heart. He became even more alert from the sounds of many feet running from the public house. What was going on? What was happening?

  Al-Dula clambered to his knees and peeked over the sill of his window. His widened eyes stared in horror as Al-Nafani’s men fled from the flames that were now consuming the building. The mercenaries were abandoning him, not even looking back to see Shefara’s public house going up in flames. The cowards were running away.

  “Allah preserve me,” the Saracen muttered to himself as he reached for his cloak, threw it around his shoulders and unsheathed his sword. His chest heaved, but Al-Dula could not seem to gather enough air into his lungs. He looked down at the crack under the door. Black smoke ebbed its way through into his room. The fire had reached the second floor of the pub. Al-Dula had no choice. He could either stay and die in the flames or flee and hope to escape the Djinn’s trap.

  There really was no choice.

  Throwing open the door, a wave of heat and smoke pushed the Saracen back momentarily. Like the flames of hell itself, he thought as he pushed forward into the blinding darkness of smoke and fire. He staggered through debris, inching his way toward the staircase and hopefully to freedom. His hand reached out, gripping the banister and he leaped three creaking steps at a time until he reached the landing.

  The bar room wasn’t as bad as the floor above, with only scattered fires torching a few of the tables and chairs. Across the room lay the oak door of the exit and survival. Only a few more feet. He pushed forward only to stop abruptly as the pub’s door opened to reveal the solemn face of Al-Nafani, sword in hand.

  “I’m sorry, old friend,” the mercenary said, as he blocked the exit. “You paid well. But the Djinn paid better.”

  With the last comment, he nodded his head toward the back of the bar room. Al-Dula turned slowly around to see the black clad visage of the demonic spirit that had ruined the lives of so many. The creature stood stock still, neither speaking or moving. Its taloned hands gripped two large scimitars, which whirled in tandem with one another. The creature was demonstrating its skill with the blade.

  The door slammed shut behind the Saracen. The thieving mercenary had locked him in here with the beast. The creature that now walked casually toward Al-Dula with menacing grace. Its long, black flowing cloak, hood, and shroud seemed to meld themselves with the fire, smoke, and shadows…giving off a completely eldritch appearance.

  “What do you want from me?” Al-Dula screamed, backing his way toward the door. On instinct, he drew his sword from his belt and held it out toward the Djinn. He couldn’t stop his arm from shaking. He lost his grip and the blade crashed helplessly to the ground.

  “Please. What do you want?”

  The creature, not saying a word, glided freely through the film of smoke that now filled the air. It was as if the Djinn was born of the flames themselves.

  “Answer me!” he screamed as his knees buckled and he collapsed to the doorstep with nowhere else to run. His lungs burned as tears of both fear and smoke filled his eyes.

  The creature stopped, just short of the Saracen. From all around them, movement caught Al-Dula’s attention. From the shadows, black armored warriors materialized, completely surrounding the once powerful warlord. The Knightshade.

  He was beaten. I will die here this night, he thought to himself as he scanned the room at the silent sentries that watched mercilessly.

  The Djinn moved forward, bent down, and reached its hand inside Al-Dula’s tunic. When the hand was withdrawn, it opened to reveal the Book of Creation.

  “This does not belong to you,” the creature said quietly. The voice was strange. Not at all what the Saracen had expected. It was melodious, not course and fearful. “Its rightful guardian is here now…to take it from you.”

  The scroll dropped back into Al-Dula’s lap.

  “As for you, murderer of good and noble men,” the Djinn continued. “If you make it out alive tonight, see to it that you never return to the Outremer again.”

  That voice. So strange. So beautiful. Beyond what he had ever expected…what was it the creature had just said? He would live? His heart beat heavily against his breast. This was too much to believe. He would live. But the creature continued.

  “Behold, your spirit of vengeance.”

  Sheathing both swords in its belt, the Djinn pulled its hood back.

  That face.

  He knew that face. Al-Dula’s eyes widened in confusion and terror. It was that infidel baron’s own daughter! Isabella. But what had happened to her? Her once beautiful and pristine face was now scarred and mottled with puss-filled sores. Her right eye drooped at an unnatural angle. Leprosy! She was now a leper.

  “Hear me, beast,” she said. “You and your treachery destroyed the lives of the two men that meant more to me than all the world. You deserve death. But today, I am able to show you mercy. Not because of me, but for the memory of the one who came before me. The one who gave his life to save others. I will not tarnish that memory with your blood.”

  The woman turned to her men and nodded some unspoken command. They moved silently back into the shadows of the flames and were seen no more. Looking back at Al-Dula, she drew her sword once more and placed it at his throat. A flick of her wrist and a small trickle of blood poured out of a tiny cut.

  “That, murderer, is for my father. Let it be a reminder to you,” she said. “Now, the one who protects the Book is here. It is he who has constantly led me to your path. The scroll calls to him. The bad news for you is…I don’t believe he will be as forgiving as I.”

  And with that, Isabella stood up and looked toward the back of the tavern. In the shadows, a hulking mass emerged. A clay giant unlike any of Gregory’s golems. This one had the head of a man, though no face, and was etched with strange symbols over its entire hide. Its size dwarfed those created by Rakeesha and the cold, stare of its eyeless face filled Al-Dula with dread.

>   “No, wait!” the Saracen screamed at Isabella. “Here, take the Book. Give it to him! I don’t want it anymore!”

  “I fear it’s much too late for that,” she said, bowing slightly to the golem as it lumbered toward Al-Dula. “Much too late for that.”

  As the golem lumbered toward him, Isabella bowed slightly to it, walked around Al-Dula’s trembling form, and walked out into the rising sun.

  OTHER BOOKS BY J. KENT HOLLOWAY

  THE ENIGMA DIRECTIVE SERIES:

  Primal Thirst

  Sirens’ Song

  Devil’s Child (Coming Soon)

  DARK HOLLOWS MYSTERIES:

  The Curse of One-Eyed Jack

  The Dirge of Briarsnare Marsh (Coming Soon)

  EXCERPT OF DEVIL’S CHILD

  Book three of The ENIGMA Directive series

  Coming Winter of 2012

  I hope you enjoy the complete first two (completely unedited) chapters of the third ENIGMA Directive novel, Devil’s Child. Many of my fans have expressed their anticipation over how long it’s taken to complete it…some have been outright frustrated. But rest assured, I do believe that this truly is the best book of the series so far. I’m hoping it will be well worth the wait and for that reason, I decided to include this excerpt in the ebook version of The Djinn.

  DEVIL’S CHILD

  (An ENIGMA Directive Novel)

  CHAPTER ONE

  No matter how many times a mallet-sized fist flies toward your face, you always have the same reaction—close your eyes, scrunch your neck down a bit, and hope for the best. Sometimes you get lucky and they miss. Unfortunately, as I stared down the aborigine smuggler’s long muscular arm hurling at lightspeed in my direction, I knew my luck was about as dried up as my canteen for the last two days.

  The giant’s fist slammed against my jaw, twisting my head in an unnatural left-leaning spasm. Blood spewed from where a tooth bit down deep into my lower lip. It hurt like a mother, but at that point, I just felt lucky to have teeth at all.