The Mystic Rose

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “Truly, it is for the best,” insisted Hasan.

  “Oh, very well!” She nearly screamed with exasperation. “Go on then!”

  “Yngvar, Svein, and the others will wait here with you,” Rognvald told her. “But I will go with the prince.” He turned to regard Hasan with quietly stubborn defiance.

  Seeing the knight was adamant, the prince reluctantly agreed and commanded Halhuli to find a turban for Rognvald and exchange cloaks with him. As soon as Rognvald was suitably disguised, they remounted and Hasan cautioned the tall knight to sit low in the saddle and avoid drawing attention to himself. “Pray that Ali Waqqar is of a mood to receive visitors today,” he said, then raised his hand in farewell.

  Cait watched the riders disappearing down the side of the hill and changed her mind. Crossing quickly to her mount, she climbed into the saddle, and was off before anyone could stop her. Dag and Rodrigo ran a few steps and called for her to come back, but she ignored them and rode on. The riders heard the commotion, turned, saw Cait, and halted on the trail.

  “Say what you like, I will not go back,” she told them in a tone suggesting that Heaven and earth could pass away long before she would be persuaded. “I have not come this far to stand aside and wait.”

  “Yu’allah,” sighed Hasan; he glanced at Rognvald, who made no move to intervene, then relented. “So be it.”

  “Whatever happens, stay close to me, my lady,” Rognvald instructed. “Keep your blade ready to hand.”

  “See you keep your head covered with the hood of your cloak,” added Hasan. “It may be they will think you are Danji, and take no notice.”

  Having won her way, Cait became compliant; she did as she was told and fell in behind Lord Rognvald. They moved on, reaching the floor of the valley a short time later, where Cait saw that it was as Hasan had said; as she gazed at the broken, boulder-strewn slopes all around she could see the entrances of small caves as dark holes in the sides of the hills.

  Leaving the ridge trail, they rode out into the narrow valley, passing among fallen rocks the size of houses. Hasan found his way to the stream and they followed the path beside it. Owing to the high, protecting walls on every side, the air was calm and silent on the valley floor; the only sound to be heard was the rippling splash of the water as it coursed along its stony bed. In a little while, it became clear that the prince knew exactly where he was going.

  They came to a place where the stream pooled as it passed around the base of an enormous, mound-like boulder, providing a good fording place. They paused to allow the horses to drink, then crossed the stream and turned toward the towering eastern slope. A few hundred paces from the ford a great stone slab lay like a toppled pillar on its side; the trail passed between two of the shattered sections. They rode through a gap wide enough for horses to go two abreast and continued on toward the slope, picking their way among the chunks of stone fallen from the heights which lay scattered over the rising ground, and in a little while arrived at the entrance to a cave.

  Potsherds and the droppings of sheep and horses covered the flat area at the base of the slope which served the cave as a yard. Aside from that, and a faint whiff of smoke adrift in the still air, there was no sign that anyone had ever been near the place. Rognvald halted a little way off, and Cait behind him; Hasan rode to the cave entrance and shouted, “Ali Waqqar!”

  He waited a moment and shouted again, adding a few words in Arabic. The call had scarcely died in the air when a figure emerged out of the darkness of the cave mouth. The man was a dark-skinned Moor, shabbily dressed, his clothes stiff with grease and dirt, his beard matted and long, his hair unkempt. His fat belly hung over his drooping belt, and the sleeves of his cloak flapped in rags about his hands as he stared warily out at the three visitors.

  He spat into the dirt at his feet before making bold to answer. Prince Hasan addressed the man sharply, and to Cait’s surprise the burly fellow straightened and made a curt bow. Hasan spoke again, whereupon the man disappeared.

  “He is one of Ali’s men,” Hasan explained. “He is meant to be on watch, but—” he lifted a hand equivocally, “you can see how it is.”

  “Is Thea here? Did you ask if—” Cait began, but the prince cut her off.

  “Hush, Ketmia,” he warned quietly. “All in good time.”

  They waited in silence for the guard to return. When he did, it was with three other men, one of whom, taller than the others, appeared slightly better dressed and reasonably more alert. He bowed and addressed the prince politely, moving out from the mouth of the cave for a closer look at the visitors. Prince Hasan spoke to him the while, raising his voice in demand when the guard appeared to take an interest in the two accompanying the prince. A few paces from Cait, he swung around sharply and moved to Hasan’s side, offered another bow and hurried into the cave once more, leaving the others behind to stare dully at the visitors until their leader returned; appearing at the cavern entrance, he motioned the newcomers to follow him.

  “The danger is past,” said Hasan, visibly relieved. “It appears Ali Waqqar will be pleased to receive us in his lair. Do you wish to accompany me, or would you rather wait here?”

  “We will attend,” said Rognvald.

  “Very well.” Prince Hasan swung down from the saddle. “Follow me. But see you keep your wits about you.”

  Cait dismounted and followed the men into the cave, regretting her decision at once. The entrance opened onto a high-ceilinged chamber, the walls of which were streaked gray with bat dung; a fair few of the grotesque creatures hung in wriggling clusters from the rocks overhead. On one side of the chamber, a winding passage led deeper into the heart of the mountain. The lower walls of the passage were damp and reeked with the sour stench of stale urine. Nor was that all. As they moved further into the cave, she encountered other odors too—the acrid tang of horse sweat, the earthy ripeness of manure and human dung, and the putrid stink of rotting meat—all of them so rank and malignant as to make her eyes water. Pressing a hand to her mouth, she hunched her shoulders and hurried on. Ahead of her she heard Rognvald mutter something under his breath as they passed by one particularly malodorous heap of refuse.

  The passage ended in another doorway carved in the rock. Bending almost double, they stooped beneath the grimy lintel and stepped into a large dome-like room which was lit by the blaze of a log fire barely contained within a crude hearth in the center of the cavern. Haunches of meat were sizzling on wooden spits placed around the perimeter of the hearth, filling the air with oily smoke. Water trickled down one wall to fill a small pool made of rocks and mud. Beside the pool were a half-dozen enormous earthenware jars; several large grass baskets were stacked here and there along the wall, with a few well-made wooden caskets among them—containing plunder, no doubt, from raids or other nefarious doings.

  At first glance the room appeared to be deserted, but as Cait looked around she began to see human forms in the quivering shadows along the arching walls and upper ledges; what she had first taken for lumps of stone were in fact men, wrapped in cloaks and turbans and sound asleep. There were others sitting quietly slumped in attitudes of drunken stupor, oblivious to events around them.

  In all, she estimated there were perhaps twenty or so, and the sight of them infuriated her: to think that these indolent sots were the brigands who had killed five good men and carried off her sister. Now that she saw them again at last, she fairly squirmed with the urge to draw her sword and separate their odious bodies from their worthless souls. It took all her strength of will to keep her hand from the blade at her side and walk on by with averted eyes. For Alethea’s sake, she did just that.

  The visitors were led to a place on one side of the hearth where skinned pine logs formed benches of sorts near a slab of rock upon which had been spread a fine rug and a satin cushion—this, Cait guessed, was where the outlaw chieftain held court. They sat down, and after a short wait three more bandits entered the chamber. One of them cried out as he entered: “Hasan
!” It was, Cait thought, a greeting of particular intimacy.

  The guests turned to see Ali Waqqar step quickly around the hearth fire and approach the prince with open arms. Cait regarded the bandit with keen interest, and felt unexpected relief in the certainty that she had never seen the man before; he was not among those who attacked her camp that day.

  A man of imposing height—made more so by the elaborate turban of gleaming blue satin on his head—he walked with the eager, rolling gait of a man hurrying from one dissipation to another. Closer, Cait could see the tell-tale signs of long and habitual overindulgence: a muscular frame now thick and flabby, loose wattles about the neck, dirt ingrained in the lines of his face and beneath fingernails; once-handsome features bloated. His clothes were of good quality, but filthy, and the cuffs of his sleeves and the hem of his mantle were threadbare. In all, his appearance proclaimed a man much come down in the world—and yet, he still possessed the arrogant confidence of a warrior.

  The prince rose to receive the homage of the bandit and it was then that Cait realized the dealings the prince admitted to having with Ali Waqqar were of a more familiar kind than he had led her to believe. The recognition produced a perverse sort of hope that the apparent amity between the two men would lead to release for her sister and Abu.

  What was more, she could see from his expression that Rognvald discerned this, too, for his eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared with suppressed anger. Cait quickly averted her gaze lest he see that she did not share his indignation at being deceived.

  Hasan and the outlaw leader stood gripping each other’s arms for a moment and exchanged a few pleasant words. Then the prince turned and said, “Allow me to present my friends: Lord Rognvald of Haukeland, and Lady Caitríona of Caithness.”

  Ali Waqqar stepped before them; Rognvald rose as he was introduced, his face impassive—magnificently so, Cait thought, considering what she had seen only a moment before. Whatever he felt at the sight of the marauding brigand, there was now no visible sign at all.

  And then it was her turn. She made no move as the bandit chief turned from Rognvald and made a slight bow before her. To her horror, he reached down and took up her hand. She writhed inwardly from his touch but, emboldened by Rognvald’s poised example, forced a thin smile and lowered her head demurely.

  Prince Hasan spoke a few words to the bandit, who nodded his head in assent, and then, in the manner of a hosting lord, clapped his hands. A dirty boy appeared, bearing a battered silver tray containing an ill-matched assortment of small golden cups. The bandit took up one and indicated that the others should do likewise. Raising his cup, Ali exclaimed, “My friends, though my cave is a stinking hovel unfit for nobles of your obvious rank and refinement, you are welcome here. I drink to your health.”

  To Cait’s surprise, his Latin was polished and smoothly spoken. She wondered whether he had stolen it along with everything else he possessed. She put the cup to her lips and sipped daintily, unwilling to taste even the smallest morsel of the brigand’s rude hospitality.

  They were invited to sit once more, and resumed their seats on the log benches, while Ali took his place on the rug-covered slab, adopting the manner of a potentate enthroned. Hasan and Ali exchanged idle pleasantries until the cups were drained, and then the bandit called for meat to be brought.

  One of the roasting joints was pulled off a nearby spit and brought dripping to the bandit leader. He pulled off a strip of flesh and stuffed it in his mouth and, licking his fingers loudly, indicated that the others should likewise enjoy a succulent bite.

  “Now then,” said Ali, chewing thoughtfully, “pleased as I am to entertain noble guests…” He lifted an ambivalent hand in their direction, “in my experience, people do not seek out Ali Waqqar unless they desire something of him. So, tell me, if you please, what is it that you wish of Ali?”

  “Most astute,” replied the prince affably. “As always, you have discerned the heart of the matter. The day is speeding from us, and we have a long ride awaiting, so I will be brief. It has come to my attention that you may have a slave to sell. We have come to buy.”

  “I see.” The bandit nodded, looking from one to the other of his guests. “Although it grieves me to say it, I fear you have had a long cold ride for nothing. I have no slaves at this time.” He took another draft from his cup. “None.”

  “We seem to have been misinformed,” replied the prince. “Forgive me, but I was certain they said you possessed a young female slave.”

  “Truly,” said Ali placidly, “I wish I had such a slave to sell, for she would be yours this instant. Alas, my friends, I have no slaves at all of any description. Business this year has been very poor, owing to the prohibition on travel between cities. You must have heard of this.”

  “To be sure,” said the prince. “Even so, it is a very great pity to have come all this way to no purpose. Perhaps I might be so bold as to suggest that I would be willing to pay seventy-five thousand dirhams for a likely young woman,” he paused, “if you should happen to hear of anyone who has such a slave to sell.”

  “I will bear it in mind,” agreed Ali Waqqar. “Now, I beg you to excuse me, but you have had the misfortune to find me in the midst of a particularly busy day.” He rose from his cushioned slab. “Accept my apologies. Duty, you know, is a harsh task master, and never satisfied.”

  “Of course. As it happens, our return cannot be delayed any longer.” Hasan stood slowly. “Until we meet again, Ali Waqqar.” The prince made a flourish with his hand.

  The outlaw chieftain made a cursory bow and the visitors were escorted back through the cave and returned to their waiting horses. Cait watched the prince climb into the saddle; she strode to his mount and took hold of the bridle. “Is that it?” she demanded. “Is that the end of it?”

  “Ketmia, hush!” he cautioned. “They will hear you.”

  “He was lying! He has Alethea. I know it.”

  The prince glanced toward the cave entrance where the guards were watching them with dull interest. “He does not have her,” he said in low tones. “Believe me, he would never have allowed seventy-five thousand dirhams to slip through his fingers. If he had even the slightest hope of producing her, we would be haggling over the price even now.”

  “If he does not have her, then he knows what happened to her,” Cait countered. “He knows, and you must make him tell us.”

  “Ketmia, please, this is not the way.” He looked to Rognvald for help. “We must leave at once.”

  “I think the bandit was lying, too,” Rognvald said. “He may not have Alethea now, but I believe he knows what happened to her.”

  Cait held tight to the bridle. “I am not leaving until I learn what happened to my sister.”

  “And I am telling you that if we do not depart at once, we will join her in her fate.”

  “You seem very well acquainted with these brigands. It seems to me you know them better than you led us to believe.”

  “It is because I know them that I say we must go,” growled the prince, losing patience. “If you do not believe me, then believe your own eyes.” He indicated the cave entrance where three more of Ali’s men, carrying swords and lances, had joined the first two; behind them, others could be seen moving in the dark interior of the cave.

  Frustrated beyond words, Cait gave out a strangled shriek and stormed to her horse. She mounted quickly, and started away. Rognvald waited until she had passed him, then fell in behind her. They had ridden only a few hundred paces when there came a cry from the cave.

  “Sharifah!”

  Cait heard it and glanced back. Over her shoulder, she saw a slender, dark-haired figure racing toward them. The cry sounded again, and she swung around for a better look. Her heart clutched in her breast.

  “Abu!”

  Instinctively, she jerked hard on the reins; her horse halted and reared. “Rognvald!” she shouted. “It is Abu!”

  THIRTY-SIX

  ROGNVALD’S SWORD WAS in his hand
before her cry had ceased. He flew past her, shouting, “Ride on, Cait!”

  Ali Waqqar appeared at the mouth of the cave, saw Abu darting away, and roared a command at his men, who stood looking on in flat-footed indecision. He roared again and started shoving men right and left, knocking two or three over; those still on their feet leaped after the fleeing youth.

  Abu put his head down and ran as if all the hounds of hell were snarling at his heels.

  Rognvald, naked blade high in the air, raised himself in the saddle; he swept by the young man and made instead for his pursuers, closing on them with blinding swiftness. With a rattling battle cry, he drove headlong into them, scattering attackers in all directions. Wheeling his horse and making long, looping slashes with his sword, he kept the wary bandits at bay.

  More brigands boiled out of the cave. Ali Waqqar stood in the center of a confused knot of men, shouting and shoving. And then, even as Cait looked on, the chaos suddenly resolved into an attacking force. They came forth in an angry rush, shouting, swords flailing.

  Heedless of Rognvald’s command, Cait hastened to Abu’s rescue, galloping across the rough, rocky ground, reining up hard as she reached him. With a tremendous bound, the young man flung himself onto the back of her horse, shouting, “Fly! Fly!”

  She turned her mount and felt one bony arm encircle her waist. “Fly! Fly!” Abu screamed. Away they flew: Cait, head down, lashing with the reins, and her passenger bouncing like a sack of meal and clinging on for dear life. She found the path by which they had come and headed out across the narrow valley.

  Prince Hasan sped past them, racing to Rognvald’s aid. “Make for the ridge!” he cried as he thundered by. “Summon the knights! We will hold them at the ford.”

  His shout dissolved into a whirring sound—like the sizzling buzz of an angry hornet—and suddenly the prince jolted upright in the saddle as an arrow instantly appeared in his upper chest. Grasping the shaft with his free hand, he wrenched it out and threw it carelessly aside, continuing his headlong plunge into the fight. Another vicious whirr sounded in the air, ending with a meaty thud. Abu gave a startled cry. “Go, sharifah! Fly!” Cait urged her horse to greater speed, streaking away over the rocky ground.