BOOKS BY SIGMUND BROUWER
MERLIN’S IMMORTALS
The Orphan King
Fortress of Mist
Martyr’s Fire
FICTION
Broken Angel
The Canary List
Flight of Shadows
Evening Star
Silver Moon
Sun Dance
Thunder Voice
Double Helix
Blood Ties
The Weeping Chamber
Pony Express Christmas
The Leper
Out of the Shadows
Crown of Thorns
Lies of Saints
The Last Disciple
The Last Sacrifice
The Last Temple
Fuse of Armageddon
Devil’s Pass
Dead Man’s Switch
BLADES OF VALOR
PUBLISHED BY WATERBROOK PRESS
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Colorado Springs, Colorado 80921
The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.
eBook ISBN 978-1-60142-625-3
Copyright © 2014 by Sigmund Brouwer
Cover design by Mark D. Ford
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published in the United States by WaterBrook Multnomah, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House LLC, New York, a Penguin Random House Company.
WATERBROOK and its deer colophon are registered trademarks of Random House LLC.
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Other Books by This Author
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Epilogue
One
October, AD 1313
St. Jean d’Acre, Holy Land
Beneath the blue of clear sky and gentle breeze that carried the salt smell of the Mediterranean Sea, Isabelle Mewburn strode on the cobblestone with plans of murder in her heart. She was burdened by the ultimate task her father had assigned upon her departure from England, months before. Deciding the best way to end the lives of the two people who prevented her from fulfilling this task gave her a cold satisfaction.
As she walked, her cloak and gown dragging along the spice-dusted streets, she heard the babble of foreign tongues at every market stall. Once, this harbor town had been one of the richest cities in all of Europe and the Mediterranean, when merchants from all over Europe had enjoyed raucous lives as middlemen, trading from ships that arrived from the sea on one side, with Arab traders supplied by camel caravans from the Damascus road on the other.
St. Jean d’Acre had served for nearly two hundred years as the main port to the Holy Land. It had been the last Crusader stronghold in the Holy Land to fall to Mameluke infidels. First Jerusalem, then Nazareth, then each fortress along the Sea of Galilee. One by one, the mighty castles that had guarded the land for generations had fallen.
The massive stone walls of the city and the high turrets of its remaining buildings showed glory and strength from a distance, but Isabelle soon discovered it was merely an illusion. Beyond the market stalls, the town seemed empty and the shadows were deep. So many opportunities to fulfill her orders! The possibilities seemed endless. Should she aim to destroy Thomas and Katherine together? separately? secretly? But oh, how she would love to see the light of recognition in their eyes spark as she ended their interference once and for all! How was she to choose?
As she stepped around a corner, she realized that, instead of thinking of murder, she should have been focused on her surroundings. She was a young woman and knew her dark hair and beautiful face drew attention. During the times of the Crusades, she could have walked anywhere the streets took her without danger, invisible in her finery among all the other women who strutted in their wealth. But no longer.
It caught her unaware, then, when she came upon three older boys punching a younger boy, who cowered with his hands over his head in a vain effort to stem the blows.
At her sudden appearance, they stopped and assessed her. They wore little more than rags, and the grins that broke across their faces were those of wild predators, ready to enjoy savaging their prey.
Annoyed with her own lack of grace and attention, she shooed them away as though they were scrawny rats. “Go away, or I’ll tear you apart. I’m in no mood for this.”
Their grins changed to brief bewilderment. Then the biggest of the three, half his left brow replaced by a jagged scar, shrugged and took a step closer.
“Puppies,” Isabelle said. “How badly do you want to die?”
The young boy spoke from behind them. His skin, lightly freckled, didn’t have the same dark complexion as those who had been beating him, and his hair, although dirty, was nearly as red as the blood pouring from his nose. “They don’t … understand you. Few on these streets … speak English,” he explained, gasping between words.
“Tell them, then, that I’m not to be bothered. Or I will hurt them badly.”
The boy spoke in rapid bursts. The biggest attacker laughed.
“He says that … when they finish with you … they’ll finish … what they started … with me.”
The three each took another step toward Isabelle.
“Tell them,” Isabelle instructed her interpreter, twisting rings on her fingers, “that this is their final chance to walk away unharmed.”
Instead of speaking, the young boy darted forward and took a protective stance in front of Isabelle.
“You need to be the one … to run,” the boy said. “I’ll do my best … against them.”
He put up his fists and waited for their opponents.
Isabelle sighed. She stepped around the broken but cavalier child and closed the distance to the ringleader. He was o
bviously accustomed to prey that ran, because again, bewilderment crossed his face.
Isabelle’s hand flashed upward as she slapped him across the face. He blinked, then reached up and touched his cheek in disbelief. He pulled away his hand and looked at the blood on his fingers. A huge gash had opened his cheek.
He roared instructions at the other two, who rushed her and tried grabbing her. One was able to put an arm around her shoulders. She grabbed his wrist with her other hand, leaving behind a small puncture mark that filled with blood. She spun free and slapped the third boy across the face, again leaving behind a bloody gash.
Then she remained where she was, watchful of her opponents.
They began to sag to their knees. Seconds later, each flopped forward to the ground.
“Who are you?”
This came from the red-headed boy, staring in disbelief.
“Someone who is not in a good-natured mood at all,” Isabelle said.
“But how …? Did you …?” The boy couldn’t get any other words out. “Are they …?”
“They’re not dead,” Isabelle said.
On each hand, Isabelle wore an elaborately designed ring with a tiny secret button that released a small spike. All she’d done was turn each ring inward and release the spike, which was coated with a fast-acting paralyzer, taken from the mash of special roots.
But that wasn’t something she would tell the boy.
Isabelle adjusted the rings so that the spikes retracted, then spun them outward again. She reached inside her cloak and found a small silver coin. She reached out and he flinched. She showed him the coin.
“For your help,” she said. “I’m grateful that you didn’t run away.”
“No,” he said. “I don’t want to be paid for doing something that was meant as honor. It’s not the code of knighthood.”
Despite her bad mood, she laughed. “And what do you know of knighthood?”
The boy drew himself up with pride. “I am the son of an English knight who fought here at the Siege of Acre.”
“That’s fanciful,” Isabelle said. She knew the history. The Crusaders’ last stronghold, St. Jean d’Acre, had fallen to the Mamelukes in May of AD 1291, after a horrible and prolonged siege. Few knights lived to speak of the battle. “He told you this?”
“No m’lady. He died the day I was born. ’Twas my mother who taught me of his bravery and my heritage. How else did I learn to speak our language?”
That gave her pause for thought. How else indeed? Something about his innocence charmed Isabelle. “Your name?” she asked.
“Rowan.” He rubbed his head. “It means ‘red.’ My mother said when I was born I had a full head of it, shiny as copper.”
“Take this,” Isabelle said, offering the silver again. “Not as payment for helping me, but as a payment for translating for me. Not that it did these thugs any good.”
Isabelle kicked the biggest boy, who lay at her feet.
“That’s not right,” Rowan said.
Isabelle kicked the second boy. “They deserve it.”
She was surprised when Rowan stepped between her and the fallen boys.
“I said, it’s not right. Please don’t kick them again.”
“They were just beating you.”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s not right to hit a fallen opponent.”
“And I don’t like being lectured by a street urchin. Go back to your mother.”
Rowan looked her directly in the eyes. “I don’t have a mother. Not anymore. She died in the spring.”
She glanced at the silver in her palm, as if confirming it was still there. This boy was an orphan. How did he feed and clothe himself? Yet he’d refused a silver coin that could be a week’s wages for a full-grown man. And he defended three boys who had just attacked him.
Code of honor indeed.
“Rowan,” she said, “how about you stay with me for a while as my guide? Who knows? I might even be able to get you to England someday.”
“I do not need that as a reward,” he said with indignation. “Instead, I pledge to you my allegiance because you are a fair lady and I vow to be your protector.”
Someone this transparently honest and righteous would certainly be of good use in any situation ahead that might require a translator. Someone she could trust fully and someone who could not do her harm. This would be very good. After all, she was in a strange land and wanted two people dead as soon as possible.
Two
Thomas of Magnus, far from the kingdom he had conquered and then lost, looked at the man who smiled and extended his right hand in a clasp of greeting.
The knight had changed little since the days when he and Thomas had entered Magnus and gained victory. Skin still darkly tanned, hair still cropped short but now with traces of gray at the temples. Blue eyes still as deep as they were wary. And always, that ragged scar down his right cheek.
“You are one of us,” Thomas said. “An Immortal.” Although it was a guess, Thomas spoke it as a statement.
Sir William nodded. “And one unable to decide whether to be gladdened or sorrowful at your arrival in the fallen town of the last Crusaders.”
Thomas raised an eyebrow.
“These are perhaps not the circumstances I envisioned for a joyful reunion,” Sir William said as he beckoned Thomas and Katherine inside and placed an iron bar across the inside of the door. “Yes, we are now under siege because of those pursuing you. Yet when one prays for a miracle, one does not ask the Lord to make it a convenient miracle.”
Beside Thomas, the woman named Katherine, who had slipped through the door while Thomas fended off their pursuers, lifted her veil and smiled.
Thomas gazed about the room with undisguised wonder and awe.
“I have been here before,” Thomas said. “Many times in strange and troubled dreams.”
“Find comfort that you have reason for this familiarity. You spent a part of your childhood in this house,” Sir William said softly. “Would that I had time now to explain.”
The knight’s face did not reflect his urgency, despite the recent echoes of that iron bar slammed quickly into place.
Thomas shook away his trance and laughed.
“Less than half a day ago, I stepped off ship”—furrows across his forehead deepened as he shot a dark glance at the other visitor—“and out of the chains that had held me there. A half day, yet already I’ve been forced to flee assassins, only to have you appear as rescuer—you, a person I never expected to see again. Then you tell me that I spent part of my childhood here, in a land thousands of miles away from England.”
Thomas stopped for breath. “Only a sane man would demand explanation.”
He then shrugged and smiled to rob his sarcasm of insult. “However, no person could remain a sane man under these circumstances, so do not trouble yourself. Even if we had the time.”
Katherine shook her hair loose as the veil finally fell away. The light of the lamps burnished her short, blond hair so that it appeared to be veined with bronze. Her suddenly revealed beauty drew a gasp from Sir William.
Katherine wore a long cape of purple silk, held in place at the neck by an oval clasp of silver engraved with a sword. Her neck and wrists glittered with exquisite jewelry. Yet having seen all of that—an impressive sight anywhere, let alone the depths of this ancient port town—Sir William had fixed his gaze upon her face.
“Katherine,” he marveled. “I remember you a winsome child, but this … this …” He stopped and sighed, as if struck with melancholy. “I have missed so much of your childhood. Were it but possible, I would pledge you all the treasures of the earth to turn back the hands of time.”
She laughed. “To pledge me the earth’s treasures is furthest from the mind of your friend Thomas. He much prefers threats, such as casting me from the deck of a ship at sea.”
The knight widened his eyes in mock horror, but any reply was interrupted by shouts from outside. Then, moments later, a crash sounded
against the wood of the door, as if a heavy shoulder had been applied.
Two more crashes. The iron bar held secure.
Shouts again.
“By the sounds, perhaps a dozen men,” the knight said.
Another crash shook the door in its frame.
“Your crossbow will be useless at short quarters,” Thomas said, nodding at the weapon the knight had laid upon a nearby table. “Have we a place to our advantage in a sword fight?”
The knight shook his head. “Against infidel assassins, no place gives advantage.”
“I will not die quietly,” Thomas vowed.
“Nor will I,” Katherine said. “Whatever weapons we have, we share.”
“Who speaks of death?” the knight countered.
Sir William yanked an unlit lamp from a nearby shelf. He pulled the wick loose from the base and emptied the oil in a semicircle on the wooden furnishings of the room.
He then grabbed one of the three remaining lit lamps and shattered it on the ground.
Flames licked at the spilled oil, then burst into a small wall of fire.
The knight nodded grimly as black smoke began to fill the room.
“Let them fight this instead.”
Three
Had Thomas been able to step away from himself to observe his own reaction to the unexpected fire, he would have been slightly impressed, not at his lack of panic, but at how well his childhood training served him during times of battle. For even as the flames around them began to roar, assumptions and conclusions raced through his mind.
The knight has no intention of suicide. Therefore, he must have an escape planned. The knight wasted no time to gather valuables before setting this fire. Therefore, he must have placed his valuables elsewhere.
Yet the meaning of those two conclusions is staggering. The knight has been ready to flee this house in an instant. He has anticipated this very moment!
How? Why?
The answers, Thomas vowed, would come later. Shouting outside rose in response to the smoke that poured through the narrow window openings carved in the limestone walls of the house. Now was the time to concentrate on the knight’s instructions.
Sir William made no noise. Only gestured for Katherine and Thomas to follow. He led them through a narrow archway into another chamber of the house.
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