She turned to him at last, pulling her long black hair over her shoulders, stroking it over her breasts as she swaggered to the mat. She walked around and around him while his head swiveled, following her with his eyes, glazed with lust and drink.
“I am honored to serve such a brave warrior,” she said softly. “It will surely be my greatest pleasure.”
He nodded, as if he expected no less. “It gladdens me that you are no longer under Abdal’s hand. Now that he is dead, you will be mine. And I will come to you every morning, every night. I will see you grow fat with my love. You are twice the beauty your mother was.”
Isra smiled down at the man and then came to kneel at his side, taking a colored bottle of oil from a basket near the mat. She was relieved he had not mentioned Huda, else she doubted she could have contained her rage long enough to do what she must. She poured some in her trembling palm and then set the bottle aside, warming the fragrant liquid in her hands. Then she leaned forward and began stroking the man’s chest, trying to push away the memory of the sight of her young sister’s slim body, covered in bruises and dried blood.
“Tell me again of your victory over the infidels,” she prompted, pressing his flabby flesh with firm, smooth strokes as she’d been taught.
“They were as rats in a hole, frightened, weeping, crying to their false god,” he said. “I alone saved the ship of men, even the infidel Felsteppe. But he will bring me great glory with our leader.”
“Yes?” Isra let her hands slide down to the man’s thighs.
“It is his plan to kill the king of Jerusalem,” the soldier said, closing his eyes and raising his hips, seeking contact between his erect flesh and her skin. “I have agreed to help him and receive a portion of the gold he hoards. As well as honor from our leader.”
“Ooh,” Isra sighed, the passionate sound belied by the lack of emotion on her face. She indulged the man by gripping his small member and then, with one hand, reached for the bottle again. She poured the oil directly on him. “Will you receive your glory soon?”
“Yes. Soon,” the man groaned.
Isra moved faster. “How soon?”
“When the Christian king comes to council with his bishops,” he panted.
“Ooh, yes,” Isra said flatly, no longer bothering to pretend passion.
She reached into the basket again, this time withdrawing a short dagger. She held it near her thigh.
“Who accompanies you?” she demanded. “When you are to do this thing?”
“The white infidel himself,” the man grunted. “Give it to me now, whore. Give it to me.”
She leaned down close to him. “Here it is,” she said, plunging the dagger home.
She shot to her feet and stumbled back, her heart pounding so that her vision trembled as she watched the man die before her. She found she couldn’t swallow and wanted to bring her hands to her mouth, but they were covered in oil. She fetched a long silk scarf from the end of the mat and wiped her hands frantically and then leaned down and retrieved her mother’s blade from the man’s still chest while her stomach tumbled. Isra pulled the silken scarf over him as if he were asleep. She backed away again, gathering her clothes as she went.
Once she had reached the doorway, she paused to toss the blade into the bowl of water while she pulled her clothes on and adjusted her hair cover. Then she wiped her blade dry and returned it to its jeweled hilt. She stared at the dead man, the first she had ever killed.
Her feeling of vengeance quickly faded. Her mother had been dead for three years; Huda, six days. Isra was truly alone in the world, and soon she would be wanted for murder.
She had only months to find the one man who could help her now.
Isra turned and fled into the dark streets of Damascus, remembering the face she had seen there only once three years before, but every night since in her dreams. How she would reach him, she didn’t know.
Isra had to once again find Roman Berg.
Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of
ROMAN
the next novel in Heather Grothaus’s
BROTHERHOOD OF FALLEN ANGELS series
coming in July 2016!
Prologue
August 1179
Syria
The wall came down no more than fifty feet behind Roman, the already hot air contracting around him like a shroud, then exploding with a roar of flames. The blast lifted him from his feet and sent him flying over the bodies of the slain workers who were, only a moment ago, being prepared for burial. He slammed into the hard packed dirt and then skidded and tumbled for several yards, his rough brown tunic seeming to melt into his skin.
He realized the instant he came to a stop that it wasn’t a friction wound he felt—the back of his tunic was afire.
He slapped at the flames and flung himself onto his back as a pair of screaming pillars of fire ran past him, but Roman could barely hear them above the loud squeal the explosion had stuffed into his pounding, spinning head. They weren’t flaming pillars; they were men. Men on fire.
Roman pushed himself up on his elbows and looked at the south-east corner of Chastellet’s bailey. Where carefully crafted rectangular stones—many which Roman Berg himself had set—once comprised the fortress’s key defense, the wall sagged, framing an inverted wedge of white-hot Syrian sky beyond. Roman’s eyes burned and his nose ran as the air was filled with the stink of naphtha and burning sand, burning flesh.
His head jerked as a hand gripped his right bicep. He hadn’t heard his apprentice approach, hadn’t been able to hear the slim man’s shouts over the twisting whine still swelling in his ears. But Osbert’s mouth was moving widely, his teeth flashing behind cracked lips as he pulled futilely at Roman with one hand while gesturing with the pick in his other to the barracks left standing against the eastern wall. Roman glanced in that direction, but the shelter held little interest for him as his gaze fell upon a hunting falcon tethered to a post just outside one of the doorways. The bird of prey’s hood swivled and twitched, as if listening to the commotion that Roman could not hear. Roman found himself fascinated by the creature’s movements . . .
A hand struck Roman’s cheek, and he reluctantly turned his attention back to Osbert.
Come on! his apprentice mouthed, spittle flying, his eyes bulging.
Roman frowned, hesitated. He was confused. What was happening? Why had the wall fallen? Why were there little shadows, like insects, crawling across Osbert’s face, across the dirt of the bailey . . . ?
The arrow shaft appeared in Osbert’s neck so suddenly, it was as if by magic. Blood spurted out of the hole on the side opposite of the fletching. Although Osbert’s mouth opened once again in what Roman surmised was a terrible scream of agony, he doubted any sound emerged. The apprentice pitched forward onto Roman, the man’s pick arcing smoothly down into the dirt, and he felt Osbert’s hot blood soak through his tunic and run down his chest as arrows fell like rain on the bailey.
Roman pushed the apprentice’s body from him as he skittered backward. A zinging pain shot up his left arm from his smallest finger and he jerked his hand from the yard, looking at the arrow that had shot a wedge of flesh from his hand before it had buried itself in the dirt. Another landed precisely between his bent knees. Roman’s head swam, throbbed; his tongue seemed to swell in his mouth. Stay still? Move? What sort of nightmare was this?
Roman looked up and saw Chastellet’s remaining workers, Templars, servants—all that were left on this sixth day of siege—crisscrossing the bailey frantically, many of them pausing midstride to demonstrate the bow-backed pose of defeat before crumpling to the ground, their bodies stubbled with arrows. Roman staggered to his feet at last, shook his head violently despite the pain it caused.
His hearing came back with a slow whoosh, letting in the roar of screams, pounding feet, clanging metal. Reality crashed upon him as surely as the wall which had crushed the men standing just behind him: Chastellet had been breached. The wall had been
the first wave of attack.
The arrows falling around him with whistles and pings: second wave. Which meant . . .
Roman again raised his eyes to the collapsed section of wall just as the undulating crowd of Saracens crested the rise and charged toward the opening. Some were on horseback, some afoot. All with weapons raised, and yelling their terrible, unintelligible screams.
Third wave.
Roman reached down and retrieved Osbert’s pick from the dirt, all the while keeping his eyes on the force advancing toward him. The warrior monks were already engaging the invaders, their long, double edged swords swinging without hesitation. But even Roman Berg—never a warrior until six days ago—knew the sheer numbers of Saracens pouring into Chastellet’s walls meant that defeat was likely.
He thought briefly of Lord Adrian Hailsworth, Chastellet’s architect and Roman’s principal at the site, and he wondered if the brilliant man would live to see the total destruction of his latest design.
He thought of Lord Constantine Gerard, a layman general of noble rank who was to have left Chastellet a week ago. Was he already dead?
They were both good men, noble men, casually treating Roman as their equal. Even Hailsworth—arrogant as he was—made it a point to defer to Roman’s skill and experience. Now whatever differences in their backgrounds and pedigrees were truly washed away, as Roman would battle as they battled, fight as they would fight, to defend the place that Roman considered to be the pinnacle of his life’s work. He could die, this he knew.
He began to stride toward the line of Templars who were miraculously holding back the onslaught against them. Perhaps God would protect them, after all. Without pause, he reached down and pulled a broadsword from the limp grasp of a fallen soldier. But he kept the pick in his right hand—it was familiar there, and he knew just how to utilize it.
As if his earlier thoughts had conjured the man, Roman saw Constantine Gerard leaping and sidling through the fight toward him. His helm was missing, but he held forth his long shield as he dispatched a rogue attacker. Somehow, Roman must have caught Gerard’s eye, for the general paused and banged his sword against his shield before raising it in Roman’s direction.
“God be with you, brother,” he shouted at Roman.
Roman lifted his weapons and crossed them with a clang over his head. “For Chastellet!” Roman returned against the cracking of his voice.
And then General Constantine Gerard was gone, the last of him Roman saw was his tawny mane flowing behind him as he threw himself into the thick of the battle. Roman turned once more toward the breach, walking deliberately, his weapons flanking him like the squires he could never claim.
Yes, he knew he could fall this day. But for as long as he was able to swing his tools, he would swing.
He stopped then and braced his feet as a Saracen soldier broke away from his comrades and galloped toward him on horseback. The man’s robes rose and fell in rhythm to his mount’s charge, and he held a long scimitar in his right hand, a small hatchet in his left, guiding his fine horse with nothing more than his knees.
Roman crouched lower, holding forth the broad sword and drawing the pick behind his head. He opened his mouth to let out a cry of attack . . .
He came awake with a gasp, inadvertently sucking in some of the silty dirt from the floor of the cave. Roman fell into a coughing fit as he sat up fully, noticing that he clutched at his shoulder out of habit. He released his arm and reached for the now nearly empty skin of wine the Spaniard had left behind for him.
“To pass the time, yes?” Valentine Alesander had said with a wry grin as he’d tossed it down from atop his horse. Then he’d disappeared down the trail in the spreading dusk.
A bird’s short, creaking chirp echoed in the cave, interrupting the memory.
Roman gained his feet and walked to the opening of the cave where the hunting falcon was tethered. He stroked Lou’s back with one gentle finger as he looked down on the walled city of Damascus that would soon lie in shadow once more. Three days. Valentine Alesander had left Roman in the cave three days ago.
“They will be praying soon,” Valentine had said. “It is my best opportunity.”
Roman scrubbed a hand over his bristly face as if he would wipe the thick air and his troubled thoughts away. Then he sighed and placed his hands on his hips. It was of no use; the cave seemed to be full of ghosts now: days past living on in his dreams, voices in his head.
Something had gone wrong. Either the Spaniard had been caught, or he had not even attempted to gain entry into Saladin’s prison to free Adrian Hailsworth and Constantine Gerard. Perhaps he had instead maneuvered his horse around the wall and gone on past the city, taking the sack of Chastellet coin with him. He’d already proven he could disappear into the native population—Roman had nearly killed Alesander himself upon their first meeting, thinking him Saracen.
Roman stalked to the back of the cave, squatted down and checked his bag again—it was still cinched tightly, the other sack of gold secure inside. Then Roman rose and paced the width of the crude shelter.
Whether Alesander had absconded with the coin or been captured himself, there was clearly no one to rescue Roman’s friends. And if the Spaniard was caught, his blood was on Roman’s hands. Roman’s shoulder ached where the man had reseated the joint for him, dislocated for weeks, and he kneaded the bicep which seemed so much smaller than it had been only weeks ago.
Valentine Alesander had rescued him from the midden heap of Chastellet—its cisterns stuffed with corpses and its walls adorned with carrion birds; rescued him from the cesspool of his own mind which echoed with screams of the dying; the sounds of arrows finding deep flesh; the shame of being the one left behind, the one left alive. The Spaniard had made Roman’s body whole again, despite the healing gashes and still-dark contusions beneath his tunic and chausses. And he had led Roman to Damascus, where the only two men on earth Roman could claim as friends were being held by the conquerors of Chastellet.
If they weren’t already dead.
Roman, like Chastellet, had fallen. Had he not been struck so many times to the temple, perhaps he would have realized the true folly of dragging himself into the exposed bailey once more to save the life of the hunting bird left abandoned and tethered to its perch—the same one that now stood guard at the cave’s entrance. But in Roman’s swollen, fevered reasoning, there had been naught else for it. His weakness and injuries had rendered him incapable of saving Chastellet, but there had been a creature before him—one totally innocent of man’s folly and politics—that he could save. He had decided to let the attempt be on his soul then, and damn him if it would.
Lou chirped again—a questioning sound—and Roman went once more to the falcon, who had come to mean so much to him since that bloody day.
“Naught else for it again, is there, Lou?” he said quietly, stroking the bird’s feathers. The falcon tolerated Roman’s touch, but Roman knew he was impatient. Lou needed to fly. And so did Roman.
He looked back to the opening of the cave. If he did nothing to save the three men hidden somewhere in the city below, he might as well return to the ruin that was Chastellet and drop from a rope hung from its highest crumbled wall. It would be better than rotting here in this cave, waiting for the Spaniard who was clearly not coming back.
Roman returned to his satchel again, picking it up and looping the strap over his back before donning the leather hood that fit tightly over his skull and draped onto his shoulders like a short cape. He had no robe, no cloak, nothing else to disguise his large body and Anglo coloring. The hood would have to do. The guards would likely kill him as soon as he passed through the gates any matter, if even he made it that far.
He had no gauntlet for Lou, but the falcon had been content to ride upon Roman’s shoulder from Chastellet. He picked loose the leather tie keeping the bird captive, and then leaned down, easing the falcon onto the edge of the leather hood.
“Going on an adventure, Lou.”
&
nbsp; The bird didn’t respond, but sidled a bit higher on Roman’s shoulder, closer to his ear. Roman found the weight of the creature, the grip of its talons, comforting, as if he truly had a comrade in the falcon.
“I’ll not keep hold of your tether though,” he said, turning and walking out of the cave without hesitation and setting his boots upon the narrow, twisting animal path that led down the hillside. “I’m likely walking into my own death, and I’d not have yours on my conscience, as well. I’ll remove your hood before I enter the city. You’ll be free.”
Roman considered as he tromped down the mountain in the lengthening shadows that, if he were being truly magnanimous, he would remove the bird’s blind now. But he could not yet bear it—the thought of being totally alone at what could again be the last hour of his life. It had been that way since he was a boy, had it not—the alone? He thought with some shame that he should be used to it by now.
He walked quickly among the dunes dotted with scrubby brush at the base of the mountain, seeking the shortest path to gain the packed road leading into the city. Roman guessed that a lone man afoot with nothing more than a single bag was unlikely to draw immediate scrutiny from the guards atop the wall. The sun was swiftly sliding down the sky behind him, throwing a long, deep shadow on the road before him, and Roman hunched into it, made it his companion along with the falcon on his shoulder.
When he was within a stone’s throw of the wall, Roman stopped abruptly and, before he could think himself out of it, he reached up and gently slipped the leather string from Lou’s leg, and then the hood from the falcon’s head. The bird blinked and tilted its head wildly, seeming to drink in the sight of the wide open sky.
Roman gave a shrug of his shoulder. “Go on, then.” The falcon flapped its wings for balance and then settled back against Roman’s ear. “Go on.” He shrugged again.
This time Lou crouched low and leapt from his shoulder, the quiet whoosh of its wings sending a crisp flip of air across Roman’s face. He watched the falcon fly low over the ground for several yards before flapping in earnest and pulling himself up, up, up into the darkening east over the walls of Damascus. The falcon cried out once, and it caused Roman’s heart to flinch.
Adrian Page 27
