The Codex Lacrimae
BOOK 1: THE CODEX LACRIMAE
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PART I:
THE MARINER'S DAUGHTER
AND DOOMED KNIGHT
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Being the First Part of
THE ARTIFACTS OF DESTINY
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by:
A. J. Carlisle
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For Cookie Monster, Elmo, and Snuffy
Love, The Count
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Let Mimir have his Norns and flaming lake â when
waking up daily to my family, I find all the love, faith, and
inspiration I need. Thank you for the magic and happiness
of our lives.
With love, and the hope that you enjoy the adventures
with RÃg and Clarinda through the Nine Worlds!
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And with sincere gratitude to Bob Thixton,
for believing!
Contents
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Sisters in Grief & the Fishermen of Caesarea
The Screaming Pillars of Raj'al-Jared
Three Days' Journey and A Hoplitarch Undone
The Poisoning of Hamzah al-Adil
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Book Two: The Roots of Yggdrassil
Of Norns,
Brisingamen
, and a Dark Elf
Fossegrim and the Strömkarlen
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Preface
â¦
Clarinda started to reply, but then another prophetic vision overwhelmed her, its force and images so intense that she leaned against the quarterstaff so as not to fall to her knees.
It was another waking vision. She was in a snowstorm on a boat that rocked wildly upon some tempestuous sea. A dark shadow with flaming red eyes rose before her and Aurelius â some kind of dragon? â its fanged head so gigantic that it reared into the heavens themselves. Lightning flashed, and the vision shifted in that white burst of energy to a glade deep in the heart of a forest, where hundreds of dwarves lay dead and her companions stood bound against trees. A madman with a long, cruel dagger danced there, screaming in frustration at a blacksmith who hammered steadily at a glowing object on an anvil. A dread deeper than any she'd yet felt filled her at the sight of the incandescent device, knowing somehow that it held as much peril for Creation as the Codex Lacrimae.
The Codex. The thought of it brought a flood of fragmented images.
She and Genevieve lay in waterlogged coffins while Khalil led his
bedouin
tribe from Saladin's camp and into the desert wastes. Fatima's face appeared, then, in a stable somewhere fiercely hugging to her a...Huntsman of Muspelheim? The Arabian woman lurched, then, falling to a knee as the stable transformed into a forest glade and she staggered backward from a different, shadowed man, impaled by a screaming sword! Clarinda tried to open her eyes, stop the vision, because the Norns, her sisters, were screaming, dying, and it was her fault. Skuld glared at her as she died, her accusation soul chilling:
I name you Fool's Daughter! The arrogance â how dare you? Why didn't you
listen to us? We've lost! You've made a future where the Norns die!”
Book One
A Fortress Besieged
Chapter 1
The Arrival of Ibn-Khaldun
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The elderly, kaftan-clad man slid wearily from the camel's back.
Apparently unaware that its burden had dismounted, the single-humped and spindly-legged beast trotted a few steps forward. It staggered backward upon bowed legs, barely regaining balance to avoid the edge of the cliff.
The old man didn't fare much better than the animal. He landed with a stumble on the hard-baked earth of the Syrian steppe and placed a shaking, dark-fleshed hand to the rough hide of the camel's flank. One of animal's horny, black-padded knees brushed against the old man's left side as he threw a comforting arm over his mount's long neck.
The man's seasoned eyes scanned the ridge of the cliff on the opposite side of the vast, boulder-strewn
wadi
.
Satisfied that no pursuit was in evidence, he made an irritated snort that matched those of his still-aggrieved camel.
Their rustling movements were enough to startle the various birds and animals that lived here. Some crested larks fluttered from a nearby grove of terebinth trees. A brown hare dashed into its hole. Some gazelles leapt with such a fleeting motion that their tan hides blended momentarily with the long-bladed brown grasses.
Would that he'd possessed such speed to flee from his pursuers through southern Arabia!
A breeze arose, carrying with it fine particles of dirt and sand, and clearing from him the last bit of whimsy.
Still, I'm tired. Another moment of rest, perhaps.
Khajen ibn-Khaldun, a Muslim scholar and mystic, pulled the silken
aba
from his face and shallowly inhaled the warming air. The month-old soreness from the injuries to his ribs yet lingered, and breathing was extremely difficult.
Should he expect otherwise? He was nearing seventy summers of life, and he'd been traveling for the last six months at a pace that would have challenged someone a third of his age. He absently rubbed a hand over his bruised side and stared at his destination: an immense walled fortress that rested upon a high, tiered bluff in the distance.
The Krak des Chevaliers.
A sigh passed from the elderly man's cracked lips. He was almost home, but he still needed to reach the castle alive!
He desperately hoped that his pursuers were thrown off his trail in the sand dunes of the Nafud ad-Dahy desert, where he'd briefly joined a caravan of camel traders heading to Caesarea.
Here in the deceptive calm of early morning, Ibn-Khaldun knew better than to trust that his trackers had been diverted. Whenever Ibn-Khaldun thought himself rid of his hunters, he'd always eventually discerned a faint, shadowed distortion on the horizon that revealed their steady advance toward him.
The old man swayed, semi-delirious as he absorbed the sight of the Krak.
Bits of stone and pebbles skittered noisily down the slope as he made his descent. His eyes stayed focused on the ground before him. Ibn-Khaldun well knew the ironic turns that Allah could create in human existence, and it would be just his ill fortune if he were to slip and break his neck this close to his destination!
Despite the tiredness, though, he still felt reluctant to mount because of the package in the leather saddlebags on the camel's backside. Even from these few paces away, Ibn-Khaldun felt the malignant presence of the thing, a virulence infecting the purity of the morning desert air.
The
thing
in the saddlebags had appeared in his dreams from the beginning of his journey. The nightmares caused by it made the formerly staid Muslim scholar more nervous than his custom, and that change angered him, especially when he approaching the familiar fortress whose scriptorium he'd managed for forty years. This close to home, he refused to be nearer to the object than absolutely necessary.
Murmuring a word of encouragement to the camel, Ibn-Khaldun began the final leg of his flight from the East.
Something blurred into his awareness near the terebinth trees. Considering his aches, age, and exhaustion, it was with surprising alacrity that the old man drew his scimitar.
The instinctive reaction saved his life. His blade clanged into another, parrying the weapon slightly to the side. The attacker's momentum carried him forward, stumbling slightly before he regained balance and brought his sword to a defensive position.
Ibn-Khaldun raised an eyebrow. The slightly curved, double-edged
saif
blade seemed noteworthy for being almost as long as his attacker was high! He faced a boy of ten or eleven, who struggled to maintain his balance even as he hefted the blade for another swing.
Ibn-Khaldun lowered his sword, speaking softly in Arabic.
“Here, here, Child. Easy. I'm an old man and alone. You've nothing to fear from me.”
“
Ay-iah
!” The boy shouted as he swung, his blade parried easily again by Ibn-Khaldun.
If the old man weren't so tired, he could've laughed at the situation. To have escaped death for six months, only to be confronted by an armed whelp here at sanctuary!
Another boy sprinted into the area, straight into the still-screaming attacker's midsection. The scholar's rescuer was dark-haired, athletic, and a hand-span taller than the first youth. Both boys crashed into the shrubbery. The momentum of the newcomer's tackle threw the first boy's arms and legs akimbo as the
saif
flew from his grasp.
Ibn-Khaldun lowered his own blade gratefully as he watched his young savior rear upward on top of the fallen boy. Straddling his opponent's shoulders, he delivered two quick slaps across the face. Then the rescuer leapt upward, yanking the child upright by bunching a fist into the linen cloth over his chest.
With a shove he pushed the attacker at Ibn-Khaldun.
“Apologize!” the dark-haired teenager said fiercely to the callow boy.
“I'm sorry!” the boy yelled fearfully. The other youth slapped the back of his head.
“No, say it like you mean it!”
“I'm sorry, Ancient One! Um...may you have many grandchildren who are better mannered than me!” The child looked back at the older boy, wondering if the words were good enough.
“Get back to the camp,” the newcomer ordered, “and tell your father that we'll have words. I'm absolutely through with you people.”
The shaken boy, tears welling in his eyes, bowed again to Ibn-Khaldun as he muttered another apology.
The other one shook his head in disgust. “You're an idiot. Run!”
“My father's going to want his sword back!” The boy cried out. He then dashed out of sight through a copse of trees. The teen-aged rescuer retrieved the
saif
and inspected it as he returned to the old man.
Ibn-Khaldun frowned thoughtfully. Although he'd just been saved by the boy, the old man maintained his guard. There was a heat in the youth's hazel eyes and a steadiness to his wiry sword arm that belied his apparent twelve or thirteen years of life.
The adolescent's athleticism and natural handling of a sword reminded Ibn-Khaldun of RÃg, the most skillful and warrior-like of his apprentices back at the Krak.
The boy noticed the stance and looked straight into Ibn-Khaldun's eyes. There was an anger in that gaze, but it seemed directed at something beyond this situation.