Knight's Honor

by Sigmund Brouwer

  “Fine. I will talk to you later,” the president said and hung up.

  The Committee member punched another button on the phone and the vidscreen immediately divided into twelve rectangles. Each was filled with a face, including his own.

  “Welcome,” Cambridge said. His was the face in the top right of the screen.

  All the Committee members greeted each other.

  “Let’s not waste time,” Cambridge said. His voice sounded hollow on the speaker phone. “As you know, Mok has passed this second test. With the help of the Living Spirit, he has made a public profession of his faith, even against the threat of death.”

  Murmurs filled the speaker phone. The one Committee member who had predicted failure had the grace to bow his head.

  “Yet,” Cambridge continued, “in private conversations with some of you, a serious matter has been brought up. Some of you believe it is a faith untested, for the walls have not fallen. Some of you say he must actually have a sword to his throat for the threat of death to be real.”

  The murmurs grew as all began to voice their opinions.

  “Enough,” Cambridge said. “Time here is also time in cyberspace. We must come to a decision soon. Do we let this cybersegment continue until Mok is at the verge of death? Or do we send him to the next stage immediately?”

  The voices grew louder.

  “Gentlemen,” Cambridge called.

  In the new silence, Cambridge spoke quietly. “There is a third option. This candidate has proved himself to be resourceful. What if he finds a way to escape the siege? You all know that if he moves into a cybervacuum beyond the boundaries of this program his brain will be scrambled.”

  “Escape is impossible,” the doubting Committee member snorted. “You know we built this model on an actual siege in the Holy Lands of the thirteenth century—every detail is the same, right down to the sultan’s messenger drawing a chalk line of the cave below. No one escaped then. He will not escape now. I say leave him there until he is tested at sword point.”

  “If we miscalculate by a single second,” Cambridge said, “the sword might take his life. And then our final candidate is gone forever. And with him, all our hope.”

  “This stage was meant to test our candidate’s faith to the utmost,” the doubter said. “Why move him to the next stage unless we have done exactly that?”

  “It is not my role to answer,” Cambridge replied. “Instead, I put it to all of you in a vote.”

  They voted.

  Six to five, the other members decided to leave Mok in the castle about to fall to thousands of soldiers.

  Chapter 12

  Cyberspace——the holy land.

  In the castle courtyard, four stood in a circle holding hands—Count Reynald, his wife, Mok, and the servant girl Rachel. Two hours had passed since the sultan’s messenger had promised that all would be dead by the next evening.

  Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  Night and day, as Mok knew, the tapping below the castle had continued for weeks. Daily it had only stopped—briefly—when one shift of slaves left and another shift replaced them.

  Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  Mok knew, too, that past the inner courtyard, past the castle walls, an army of thousands waited to flood the castle, engaging the knights in a screaming, raging battle of spears and swords.

  At this moment, however, with the sun just about to set, a soft golden light filled the courtyard with a deceptive promise of continued life. The air was still and cool. Except for the echoes of the pickaxes tapping against the stone foundations of the castle, it might have been as peaceful as a cathedral.

  The four stood, about to pray as if the courtyard truly were a cathedral. Three of them—Count Reynald, the countess, and the servant girl—stood with heads bowed and eyes closed in reverent contemplation. Mok, copying them, stood with bowed head. He was unfamiliar with prayer, however, and did not know it was the custom to close his eyes against distractions.

  “Almighty Father,” Count Reynald spoke in his low voice. “Our lives are in your hands. When our time arrives, please take us quickly through the curtain of death to the light of your love on the other side.”

  Mok furrowed his eyebrows. He was beyond wondering how he’d been thrust here from the street canyons and work gangs and rats in Old Newyork. He was beyond believing this was a troubled dream caused by glo-glo pharmaceuds in his water. He was even beyond the perplexing mystery of the girl opposite him, a girl who was playing the part of a serv-ant even as Mok himself had been put into the role of the count’s son.

  Mok’s puzzlement was more basic.

  The count prayed to a father. Was not the man from Galilee called the Son?

  The count also spoke as if this father could actually hear his pleas. How could this be? And could the man from Galilee also hear whenever one spoke? Could it be this simple?

  Mok nearly spoke his doubts aloud, but the others were so earnest in their prayer that Mok did not dare interrupt.

  The count and his wife began to sing softly, a majestic tune Mok did not recognize. Mok remained silent, staring at the stonework of the courtyard.

  Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  Not even the hymn could hide the sound of pickaxes digging closer to their deaths.

  Still staring downward, Mok smiled grimly. He needed no more reminder of his impending death than the markings of chalk just beyond his feet. It was a large circle, showing the size of the hole already dug beneath the castle.

  Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  It filled Mok with great sadness to think of these people meekly waiting for the invading horde. Wasn’t there something to be done?

  Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  Below his feet, slaves patiently kept digging.

  Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  How far below? Mok wondered idly. How dark and horrid it must be to work as a slave miner.

  Then Mok smiled again. Much less grimly than before. Perhaps Tabarie had given them the answer.

  When Count Reynald and his wife finished singing, Mok raised a quiet question.

  “Tell me,” he said, “in what manner do slaves in this land dress themselves?”

  Chapter 13

  Five hours later—in the middle of the night—they were gathered again in the courtyard. Had there been light of day, the count would no longer have been recognizable as the nobleman ruler of the castle. Gone were his fine robes. Instead, he wore sweat-stained rags. His head was shaved; his face and arms were covered with smudged grease and dirt.

  The countess, too, had a shaved head and was equally filthy. Hidden beneath their rags, both wore pouches filled with gold. Mok and the girl matched the count and his wife. Mok’s scalp, now stubbled, tingled from the earlier scraping of the razor.

  “It was kind of the general’s messengers to show us the outline of the cave,” Count Reynald murmured. “I pray that what was meant to be a show of force proves instead to be a means of life.”

  “Shall I go first?” Mok said. “I am ready.”

  At their feet was a pile of flat stones, pried from the courtyard floor. In the opening in the stonework was a hole just big enough to pass through. The end of a thick rope was coiled near the hole. The other end of the rope was tied to a post at the far end of the courtyard.

  “No, my son,” Count Reynald replied. “Even though you devised this escape, I shall go first. There is the possibility I might land among the slaves of the next shift. If so, let me take the fight to them. If it is safe, you must help the women follow me down.”

  Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  Three knights stood behind them. Count Reynald addressed them with matching softness. “You are certain, my friends, you will not join us?”

  “We are certain, m’lord,” one answered. “Although the fire will begin tomorrow, the stone may not fall through for hours. And we shall fight hard. Tomorrow night, if the castle still stands and we have a chance to escape in the darkness, we will follow. As fo
r now, we will return to our fellow knights upon the ramparts to help create the diversion. And before dawn, we will cover this hole so the light is not visible below.”

  “God be with you,” Count Reynald said. “May we meet in the seaport as planned.”

  “And God be with you.” The three knights bowed, a motion barely seen in the darkness. They hurried away.

  Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  Minute followed long minute.

  Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  Silence. The shift had ended.

  “Now,” Count Reynald ordered. “We must go now. We have little time.”

  He did not hesitate. He took the end of the rope and tied it around his waist. He handed a portion of the rope to Mok.

  “If it is safe once I have landed below,” Count Reynald said, “I will tug twice on the rope.”

  Count Reynald lowered himself into the hole without further instructions. None were needed. Mok braced himself and played the rope out through his hands. When the weight eased, they waited anxiously. Finally came two quick tugs on the rope. Mok’s rapid heartbeat increased in a surge of added adrenaline.

  The plan was working. They would join the slaves below as they filed out of the cave. From there, they would find an opportunity to escape. And to the people of the land, it would be seen as a miracle.

  All that was left was to get the countess and the girl safely down the rope. Mok would then follow.

  Mok helped the countess lower herself into the hole.

  “Thank you,” she said. “You found a way for us to leave and still keep our honor and our vows. I know now that we will be safe.”

  Mok nodded with dignity.

  He turned to the girl.

  “Please,” Mok said, “let me ask one final time. Were you not the pharaoh’s daughter in the land of endless sand? Help me understand . . .”

  He allowed his voice to trail away, for in the near dark of the courtyard, he could see her move toward him.

  “Embrace me,” she said. “Tightly.”

  He had no chance to refuse, for she was in his arms and pulling him against her. She hugged him, then pulled back.

  “Breathe deeply,” she commanded.

  He was puzzled, but already she was pressing a cloth into his mouth and nose. A sweet, cloying smell seemed to fill the cavern of his brain. He tried to protest. Dizziness, however, sucked the air from his lungs and drove him to his knees.

  He felt himself begin to topple. He sank to his knees, then fell, eyes closed.

  She must have believed him already unconscious.

  “I’m sorry,” he heard her whisper, “but this was done to save you.”

  It was the final sound he heard in the castle.

  Chapter 14

  mainside.

  When the comtechs finished reporting all the details of Mok’s cybertest, one Committee member inwardly squirmed with disbelief, anger, and fear. Outwardly, of course, he showed the same growing joy expressed by the rest of the Committee.

  This Committee member managed to exchange congratulations with a few others before excusing himself from the room on the tenth floor. The entire time his face was a mask, although his thoughts were on a netphone in the main-floor lobby of the building.

  He had been forced to use it once before in a similar emergency—when Mok had passed the first stage of the test. Then, the Committee member had never dreamed he might have to use it again in the same kind of emergency.

  There was one small difference. When Mok had passed the first cyberstage, the Committee member had raced to the netphone. This time, he walked as if his feet were encased in concrete blocks. He was not looking forward to the message he had to send.

  It seemed as if it took him an hour to reach the lobby and cross the marble floor to the public netphone. He wished the trip had taken twice as long.

  Although others were leaving the building through the lobby, the Committee member began to type on the netphone’s keyboard. For all they knew, he was checking to see if his family had e-mailed him a message regarding a dinner meeting. If someone came close enough to see otherwise, he would hit the delete key and erase everything from the screen.

  The Committee member punched in the private dotcom number of the president of the World United. The system prompted him for his e-mail message. The Committee member’s fingers clicked over the keyboard:

  I have just received the report that the candidate is moving into stage three. I had considered this impossible. I fear he will move through this stage easily as it has been designed not to test him, but to teach him. I strongly advise you to give me the go-ahead to send in a cyberkiller. Please respond immediately—time is short.

  The Committee member hit the send button and hurried from the lobby.

  An hour later, during dinner at a restaurant with his family, he briefly excused himself. There was a netphone on the street corner.

  The member punched in his access code to check for new messages. There was one. As expected, it was from the president of the World United.

  The member shielded the netphone screen from passersby and scanned the words.

  Candidate must fail. Proceed with cyberk. . .

  Chapter 15

  cyberspace——pirate ship.

  The strong smell of wine surprised Mok.

  “Wake up, you scoundrel!” a loud voice roared.

  Hot breath blasted Mok’s face with more of the smell of wine. “Wake up! Wake up! The captain will have us for shark bait!”

  Eyes still closed, Mok told himself he was prepared for anything. He had been a royal undertaker for a pharaoh . . . then a count’s son in a castle under siege. How could anything surprise him now?

  “Wake up! Wake up!” Rough hands shook him.

  Mok squinted open one eye and looked into the unshaven face of a man with an eye patch. The wine-stench breath and words came from a mouth of black and broken teeth.

  The man jerked Mok into a sitting position. He surveyed Mok and then bellowed with laughter.

  “By the depths of Neptune,” the man shouted. “Whoever gang-pressed you played a mean, mean joke to shave your head in such a manner!”

  “Gang-pressed?” Mok managed weakly. He rubbed his scalp. The stubble was still there from shaving his head at the castle.

  “Gang-pressed. You and all the others,” the man shouted in glee. “Fools, the lot of you. It’s a simple matter to fill you with wine until we can roll you aboard the ship as crew mates!”

  “Crew mates? Ship?” Mok, of course, had not had any wine. He struggled to understand, and became more aware of his surroundings. His bed was a pile of damp blankets in a cramped room of rough wooden beams. It smelled of mold and seawater.

  “Ship!” the man shouted. “Of course it’s a ship! Weren’t you in a harbor town last night? Did you not see the masts and the sails?”

  “I did not agree to this,” Mok said. He became aware of a rocking motion. The entire room seemed to sway. “Set me free.”

  More drunken laughter from the man before him.

  “But you are free! Free to wander this ship! You can even return to the harbor—if you care to swim among the sharks! Otherwise, welcome to the merriest band of cutthroat pirates to sail the seven seas!”