by Lara Adrian
Sebastian gave him a disinterested shrug, although he expected he would well enjoy the solitude. “Go on. And don't hurry back on my account.”
As the youth sought his nearby mount from where it was tethered with Sebastian's, and then cantered off, Logan rode up from the opposite direction of the street. “Have you heard, my friend? They found a body on the beach this morning.”
Sebastian's heart clenched. “Jesus, not--”
“Nay,” Logan said, with a quick shake of his head. “'Tis a man. A Saracen peasant with his throat slit from ear to ear.”
“Sounds like the work of the fida'i.”
“Aye. I thought so, too. Fallonmour and Blackheart, along with some of the others, are heading down now to have a look. I reckoned you'd want to know.”
“Thanks, my friend,” Sebastian said. “Go on ahead of me. They don't need to know you told me about this.”
Logan gave him a nod, then wheeled his roan about and went off down the street. Sebastian walked over to his white destrier and freed the reins from the post. He put his boot into the stirrup, ready to mount and follow his friend down to the beach, when someone drew up from behind him.
“Buy something pretty for your lady, master?”
Sebastian pivoted his head to regard the skinny Saracen vendor with an impatient stare. “Not interested,” he growled back in Arabic. “You'll have better luck elsewhere.”
“Are you the captain, master?”
Sebastian paused, stepping back down into the street. “Who's asking?” He narrowed his gaze on the little man, every muscle going taut in warning. “Who are you?”
“I've got something for the captain,” said the man, and he withdrew a sparkly gold chain from a pocket in his trousers. He held it up for Sebastian to see the pendant dangling from the end of the loop--his black lion medallion, the very one he had lost to Halim the day Zahirah first came to the palace.
“What the--where did you get that?”
Sebastian reached out to snatch it from the man, but the Saracen was that much quicker. Slippery as a fish, he spun on his heel and darted off down an alley. With a curse, Sebastian lunged into a run and gave chase.
The Saracen led him on a mad, zigzagging path, deep into the lower part of the city. Sebastian felt like a bear chasing a gazelle, his chain mail like lead on his legs and shoulders, weighing him down. But his quarry seemed uneager to lose him completely, the hunt reminiscent of another chase through Ascalon's streets, a chase that had ended when Zahirah walked out of a baker's shop and into his heart.
That chase had been a trap, and this one likely was, too, but if it would lead him closer to her, he was going to follow it to the end, and to hell with the consequences.
The Saracen skidded around the corner of a dilapidated building and tore off down a sliver-wide alley. Sebastian slipped between the crowding walls on either side and jogged to the end, just in time to see the man dash into a hunk of sandstone that might have at one time, perhaps a century before, been something passably inhabitable. With one hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword, he moved aside a worm-eaten board that seemed to serve as a door, and ducked inside. It was dark within, but his vision adjusted enough that he could that he was alone there; his quarry had vanished.
There was only one small window in the place as far as Sebastian could tell, a hole burrowed into the wall of the hovel. Draped over it was a moldy square of dark cloth; he yanked it down, turning his head aside as the dust and dirt stirred, then settled. Now, with the aid of some daylight, he saw another door opposite where he stood, a door that opened on oiled leather hinges into the floor. He lifted it, and stepped down onto a steep, dark stairwell carved out of the earth.
At the bottom of what seemed a never-ending descent, was a wide rock-formed cave with a sand floor and the low rush of water flowing somewhere within. From out of the void of darkness came several pale fingers of light. Sunlight, he presumed, stepping through a slender beam that splintered in from the side wall of the cavern.
“Well, well,” purred a smoothly elegant voice, an Arabic voice, obviously well-educated in the language of the Franks. “Captain Montborne, we meet again.”
Sebastian did not have to see the gaunt, bearded face to know that he was being addressed by none other than Masyaf's elusive Old Man of The Mountain, Rashid al-Din Sinan. The same old man he had encountered in the city with Zahirah the other day. He had suspected it then, but it was not until Zahirah's attempt on the king that he put it all together.
“Where is she?” he demanded, turning toward the sound of Sinan's voice.
The King of the Assassins stepped out of the shadows, flanked by three armed men. One of them held Zahirah; her spine was stiff, her wrists bound together before her in a biting coil of rope. A dark bruise rode high on her cheek, and her lip had been split and swollen as from a severe blow.
“You son of a bitch,” Sebastian growled, instantly furious and ready to tear the old man apart.
“Sebastian, no!” Zahirah cried. “He'll kill you!”
He took a step toward Sinan and the two bodyguards advanced to create a wall between him and their king, their hands gripped around the handles of their scimitars. The man holding Zahirah shifted and Sebastian caught the glint of a dagger blade held snug at her side.
“She's right, sirrah,” Sinan warned. “Mind your temper. I promise you, I would be happy to rid myself of you both if you prove a tax on my patience.”
“What is the meaning of this? Why did you send your man to lead me here?”
“I have a job for you,” Sinan said. He slid a scathing look on Zahirah. “Some unfinished business, if you will, with your king.”
Sebastian laughed. “You're mad.”
“Am I? Well, I wonder.” Sinan smiled, seeming very amused with himself. “Am I mad to think you care for this woman? You cared enough to come here, when you had to know I would be waiting. I think you might care enough to do just about anything where she is concerned.”
“You thought wrong,” Sebastian replied, a bluff, but one he prayed would buy him some time to puzzle a way out of this spider's web. “I didn't come for her, Sinan. I came for you. If there is unfinished business, it's between you and me. As for the woman, she is--” He glanced to her, then back to the Old Man, and gave a shrug of his shoulder. “--she's inconsequential.”
“Really.” Sinan's smile widened, a slash of white in his beard. Still staring at Sebastian, gauging his reaction, the fida'i king issued an order to his man. “Cut her.”
The guard flexed his beefy arm against her side and brought the blade of the dagger up where Sebastian could plainly see it. Holding it against Zahirah's cheek, he began to press the edge of the knife into her smooth skin. One slash and he would ruin her face forever.
Zahirah averted her gaze, but she would not turn away from the blade. She would not cry out. Faith, but she would stand there and let them mutilate her before she asked Sebastian to help her. The guard looked to his master for confirmation. Expressionless, Sinan gave an affirmative flick of his hand.
“Wait,” Sebastian said. “Jesus Christ, you sick bastard. Wait.”
At Sinan's nod, the dagger eased off. Sebastian blew out a curse. Zahirah was looking at him in anguish now, biting her lip and shaking her head. “Sebastian, don't let him use you. He wants Richard dead, but he will destroy you, too. He's going to kill me either way.”
“She might be right, you know,” Sinan mused. “Then again, would you be willing to test me?”
Zahirah's brows were knit together, her eyes swimming with tears. No, she mouthed. No.
Sinan knew he had him precisely where he wanted him; Sebastian could see the satisfaction blazing in those soulless eyes. “I'm listening,” he growled.
“You have the benefit of certain access. Access that would take me months to establish again,” said the Old Man. “So let us make a trade, you and I. Your king's death for your lady's life. Bring me the heart of the English Lion and I'll let you have
the girl.”
Sebastian smirked, scenting the stench on Sinan's so-called trade. “I'm not leaving here without her. Zahirah goes with me now, or we have no deal.”
“Really, captain.” Sinan chuckled, but there was no humor in his expression. His eyes narrowed to glittering black slits. “Do you think I would surrender her to you and trust that you will uphold your end of the bargain?”
“Do you think I would leave her with you, and trust you to uphold yours?”
Sinan drew back at the challenge, his bearded chin rising to a superior angle. He grunted. “It seems we are at a stalemate, sirrah.”
Sebastian drew his sword. “I don't think so. I'm taking her with me.”
As his blade rasped out of its scabbard, Zahirah's eyes flew wide. “Sebastian, no!” The Old Man's two bodyguards raised their scimitars and held them in a battle stance, ready to pounce at their master's command. Zahirah's captor jerked her tighter against his dagger.
Standing behind his guards, Sinan did not so much as flinch. “Don't be a fool, captain. You're moments away from watching her die. It won't be pretty, I assure you. Neither will yours, for that matter. My guards can have you disarmed and disemboweled in a heartbeat.”
“Then bring them on,” Sebastian taunted, knowing he needed to get them away from Sinan if he stood any chance of getting close enough to slay the Assassin King. “Do you forget, Old Man? I've seen your men in action, and I've sent a fair number of them to the devil where they belong. Nothing would please me more than to see you go next.”
“Very well, you've made your choice.” Sinan scowled at Sebastian from behind the wall of his guards. “Kill him.”
The two fida'i stalked forward.
“No!” Zahirah screamed, bucking against the man who held her and railing at Sinan. “Damn you! You bastard, damn you! I hate you!”
“Control her, will you?” Sinan barked, jerking his head toward the struggle going on beside him.
Sebastian saw the guard strike Zahirah, saw her stumble with the impact, her knees buckling beneath her. She pitched forward into the sand at her guard's feet. Sebastian let out a roar, but there was nothing he could do to help her at the moment. Sinan's two bodyguards rushed him, their weapons cold slashes of arced silver coming at him in a blur of flashing steel and murderous intent.
Sebastian met one with the edge of his sword, knocking the blow aside. The other man struck hard, his light blade slicing at the steel links that covered Sebastian's left arm. He whirled toward the attack, raising his weapon and bringing it down into the assassin's spine. Unprotected in just a leather jerkin and tunic, the man's back crunched like a beetle smashed under a boot heel. Sebastian jerked his blade out of the bleeding carcass and spun to meet the second man, who charged at him now in a fury.
In the corner of his eye, while he fought against this further assault, he saw Zahirah come up off the ground, jerked to her feet by her captor. Although her wrists were tied together, Sebastian was relieved to see that she was not entirely defenseless. She had managed to fill her hands with sand; now, with a yell, she threw it in the assassin guard's face. He roared, and in his momentary blindness, he dropped his dagger. Zahirah dove for the weapon, and, holding it between her bound hands, she lunged, and buried the blade in his chest. As he slumped, dead, Zahirah pivoted to find Sebastian in the fracas.
“Run!” he commanded her. “Save yourself. Get out of here!”
Sebastian's assailant landed a decent gash on his hand in the second his attention was turned on Zahirah. Sebastian went down, but he was able to retaliate with an upward thrust of his blade. The two swords clanged against each other and held, force against force, rage to rage. Sebastian kicked him off, just in time to see Sinan inching toward a passageway in the cavern.
Rolling onto his feet, Sebastian bolted after the Old Man before he could slip away. He seized a fistful of Sinan's flowing robes and yanked him down to the ground. In the distance, above the crash of the surf outside the cavern, he heard voices shouting. English soldiers, no doubt, Fallonmour's men, poking around on the beach. He shook off the distraction, and put the tip of his sword at Sinan's throat. “Now you die,” he growled and sucked in a breath of the briny air, ready to lean into his thrust.
“Not before she does, captain,” the Old Man sneered up at him, defiant, insanely confident.
Sebastian heard a muffled grunt nearby, heard the sifting of feet kicking in the sand. He swiveled his head over his shoulder and his heart sank. The last of the guards, the one he had knocked down but regretfully left living in his haste to catch Sinan, now had Zahirah. He held her before him, her bound hands trapped at her abdomen, pinned beneath the band of his beefy forearm. His scimitar gleamed from under her chin, forcing her to hold her head at a stiff angle to avoid severing her neck on its razor edge.
“You'd be wise to let me up,” said Sinan. Sebastian eased off only slightly, allowing him a small space to regain his feet. He kept his sword leveled on Sinan's chest, balancing his gaze between his sly quarry and the brute who held Zahirah.
There was more commotion coming from outside the cavern along the shore, getting nearer now. Whoever it was, had evidently found a way into the cave. Sinan realized the threat as well. His gaze like twin fires, he stared at Sebastian. “Ahmed and I are going to take the girl, and we're going to leave now. And you are going to hold up your end of our bargain here today, aren't you, captain?”
“Go to hell,” he growled. “Tell your man to release her. Now. Unless you prefer to wait here like this until those knights arrive. I'm sure Lionheart would love to get his hands on you. Think back on Acre's massacre, if you have any doubt. Richard ordered twenty-seven hundred prisoners gutted that day; just imagine what amusements he'll devise for a cur like you.”
Sinan's thin little smile faltered. His gaze slid to his man, and he gave a vague jab of his chin. “Let her go.”
The assassin bodyguard seized a fistful of Zahirah's hair and savagely thrust her away from him. Without the aid of her hands to brace her, she went down hard, striking her head on a craggy rock nearby.
“Zahirah!” Sebastian shouted, and lunged toward her crumpled form. His attention focused elsewhere, the distraction gave Sinan the chance he needed to get away. The Old Man turned and fled down a dark artery of the cave, with his man, Ahmed, a few steps behind him. “Zahirah,” Sebastian said, kneeling down beside her and gathering her into his arms. She roused, dazed, her forehead scraped and bloody.
“Go after him,” she murmured, pulling herself up. “Don't let him get away.”
Sebastian considered it for less than a moment. He shook his head. “I'm not leaving you. I'm not ever leaving you again.”
“Down here!” came a Norman soldier's shout, echoing from somewhere along one of the passageways. “I think I heard something from down here, sir!” On the heels of that report, an untold number of knights seemed to be approaching at a run; their heavy armor jostled like chains in the cavern's arteries, the sound growing louder as they drew nearer to the assassin hideout.
Sebastian grabbed Zahirah's hands and cut her bonds loose with his dirk. “Can you stand?” he asked her as the ropes fell away. She nodded, marshaling herself to the task with the strength of will he so admired in her. “Then let's get out of here, my lady.”
He took her hand and towed her with him, heading for the path that would take them back up the stairwell and out to escape through the city's underbelly. They rounded the wide jut of rock that separated the cave from the stairs--just as two armed English knights thundered down to head them off.
“This way!” Zahirah cried, spinning with Sebastian to attempt escape down another route.
They drew up short, met in force by Fallonmour and Blackheart and half a dozen more men. The soldiers came in from the direction of the beach, spilling into the wide cathedral of the cave to surround them like a pack of wolves.
Chapter 30
They were trapped. The tidal river surged below the ledge at
their backs; on every other side of them were Frankish soldiers, brandishing their broadswords. With nowhere left to go, nowhere to turn, Zahirah clung to Sebastian as he put himself in front of her like a shield, and faced off against his own countrymen.
At the front of the knights was a man with a lumpy, bandaged nose. Zahirah recognized him: he had been the one who accosted her at the feast tent in Darum. Fallonmour, Sebastian had named him as he charged to her rescue that night. How long ago that night seemed to her now. She might have forgotten the unpleasant part of the evening, if not for seeing her attacker before her now to remind her.
Fallonmour, evidently, was still holding a grudge for the punishment he suffered at Sebastian's hand. His gaze was scathing as it lit on her, but it burned all the worse when he turned it on Sebastian. “I might have known I'd find you here. Traitor.”
There was another knight present whom Zahirah feared, and that was the one known so infamously as Blackheart. He stood among the others like a mountain of leather and steel, all darkness and cool reserve. “Stand down, Fallonmour,” he growled, turning a black scowl on his companion. “You forget yourself; you are addressing a fellow officer.”
“Nay, not anymore,” sneered the nobleman from beneath the bandaged pulp of his nose. “Haven't you heard? He lost his rank for letting this Arab whore twist his loyalties.”
Zahirah's heart clenched at the knight's revelation. “Sebastian,” she whispered, remorse heavy in her breast, “is it true?”
That he did not reply was answer enough. She was sick to think what her mistakes had cost him. What they might cost him, still, if the wicked glee in this leering soldier's eyes were any indication.
Fallonmour lowered his head like a bull incited to charge. “By the king's decree, Montborne is no longer captain here. He is a common sergeant, mine to command. And I command he kill this assassin bitch, or face a charge of treason.”
“I'll kill you first,” Sebastian replied with deadly calm. He reached around behind him with his left hand, as if making sure she was still there, as if to reassure her that he would bring her no harm, whatever the threats against him. “If you're looking for blood, Fallonmour, search out Rashid al-Din Sinan. He's here in this crag somewhere. You've got more men than him; you should be able to catch him.”
