The Djinn (14 page)

Gerard tensed.
His eyes scrambled to adjust to the darkness invading the Vault. His men were
panicking. Scurrying around blind, they chattered like monkeys anticipating a
fierce lion’s attack. This wouldn’t do. He had to regain control.

“Quiet!” he
said in a hushed but firm tone.

The sounds
ceased immediately at the command. He couldn’t see a single man, but knew they
all looked in the direction from which his voice traveled…looking for guidance
and courage. He wasn’t sure he had either to give.

Durgan
, one of his most competent men, sidled up to Gerard.

“This is not
going well,” the soldier said. “I’ve never seen them this agitated.”

“That’s right.
You left before we were attacked by the creature the first time.”

Durgan
stiffened at the rebuke.

“How was I to
know he was going to attack? You’re the one who sent us on our way.”

“Still, you’re
right. The men are most definitely frightened,” said Gerard.

And who could
blame them? There seemed to be no end to what
this Djinn
could do. What witchery had the creature used to extinguish all the torches at
once? Gerard realized he was facing not only a cunning warrior in the Djinn,
but a sorcerer as well—a prospect that chilled him to the bone. Fighting a man
was one thing. They always had a weakness one could find if you lived long
enough to discover it. But a practitioner of
magick
was something altogether different.

“They’ll deal
with it. They are stout men,” said Gerard finally.

“Most of them
are barely old enough to be called that.”

“They’re
brave.”

“How many of
your ‘brave’ young men ran away from the Essene village?”

If there had
been any light, Gerard would have glared coldly at
Durgan
for the reminder. As it stood, he had a different idea. The reedy sound of
metal sliding against metal echoed through the chamber as the Gerard slowly
inched his sword from its scabbard.

“Any man caught
abandoning his post will wish they had been killed by the Djinn,” Gerard
growled.
“Any questions?”

No one spoke.
Then, after seconds of complete silence, a symphony of unsheathed blades rang
out in the Vault as they all prepared themselves for the
Djinn’s
imminent attack.

“Nicely done,”
was all
Durgan
could say.

Gerard spat in
disgust in response. The Djinn would be here soon. He could already be in the
very chamber in which they now stood. He had to rally his men.

“Archibald,” he
said into the darkness.

“Aye, sir.”

The sudden
response—so close behind him—made the mercenary jump.
 

“Quietly locate
everyone. Pull them together, shoulder-to-shoulder, in a circle. Face each man
out toward the walls and make the circle big enough to cover the expanse of the
chamber but compact enough to allow little room for anyone to squeeze through,”
Gerard commanded. “And find something to light some of these torches.”

“Aye,”
Archibald said as he stumbled off to collect the men. Suddenly, the
lieutenant’s movement’s stopped.

“Sir?”

“Yes, what is
it?” Gerard felt the walls and ceilings moving against him in the darkness. He
strained to maintain his own calm.

“Look behind
you, sir?”

Gerard craned
his head to look on the eastern wall. His eyes widened at a strange greenish
symbol, shaped like a single letter from some demonic language, glowing dimly
in the dark. The mercenary had never seen anything like it in his life—no, that
wasn’t entirely true. Although the obvious magic employed to create the symbol’s
ghostly aura filled his mind with dread, he had seen the symbol itself before.
It had been engraved on the medallion the Djinn had stolen from…no, been given,
he corrected himself, by Isabella. The soft green glow pulsed through the
chamber, illuminating the faces of three terrified soldiers who stared at it in
stark silence. Gerard shuddered.

“What do you
suppose it means?” asked Archibald.

“I’ve no idea.
But we’ll worry about that later. For now, just do as I’ve commanded.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Quickly, his
lieutenant scrambled to position each of the men in his proper place. While
Archibald went about his task, Gerard’s nose wrinkled at a sudden, familiar
odor filling the vault—brimstone.

He’s close. Very close
.

Soon, all
eighteen men stood like statues in the cold darkness of the chamber. And though
they couldn’t see them, each of the mercenaries felt the cold, indifferent
glare of the twelve golems encircling them in the shadows.

Archibald
continued fumbling around the floor until he let out a cry of triumph.

“I’ve found a
torch!”

“
Shhhh
, you idiot.
He’s
undoubtedly nearby,” said Gerard. “Just light it and join the circle.”

Gerard’s body
ached. He hadn’t moved an inch since the torches went dark. Sweat beaded down
his bearded face and over his lip. He allowed his tongue a swipe and tasted the
salt.

Clink
! Tiny sparks flew from Archibald’s
fingertips as he struck flint against stone.

Clink
! More sparks, but the torch
remained unlit.

Clink
! The third try was charm and
Gerard’s lieutenant triumphantly succeeded in lighting his torch. The warm glow
of the flame washed over the mercenary and his men. He could feel his courage
and strength returning at the comforting flicker of the light.

Archibald
stepped toward the encircled soldiers, ready to take his place among them. He
stopped short, just in front of Gerard…his face ashen and mouth agape with
terror as he stared dumbly past his commander’s right shoulder.

“What is it?”
asked Gerard.

Archibald tried
to speak, but no words caught on his tongue. Only a gasp of air escaped his lips
as he raised one hand and pointed directly behind his captain.

“I’ve already
seen the markings, you fool! Now, get into position.”

His lieutenant
stood rigid, the torch slipping from his fingers to the floor and casting
strange shadows all around them. Feeling bile rise in his throat, Gerard slowly
turned around; his men did the same. In the middle of the ring of soldiers,
enfolded in a mixture of otherworldly darkness and torch light, a living shadow
stood, hunched over, gleaming scimitar gripped firmly in hand. Its eyes
glimmered with the same eerie green as the marking on the wall and bore
straight into the mercenary’s very soul. No one moved. Each man remained
cemented in place by mind-numbing, irrational horror.

Archibald
fainted.

Without
warning, the creature kicked high, striking Gerard in the jaw, whirling the
mercenary through the air to slam against the hard earth. The blow knocked the
wind out of him and he wheezed from the sudden lack of air.

All around him,
his men thrashed in the gloom, striking ineffectually at their assailant.
Blades sparked as they clashed against the
Djinn’s
scimitar. Rufus, one of Gerard’s more recent recruits, flung himself headfirst
at the demon, which swiveled out of the way, allowing its attacker to plummet
helplessly into a group of barrels.

The creature
spun around, its extended leg sweeping one young soldier off his feet. When it came
to a stop, the Djinn found himself surrounded by three more guards. They looked
at each other in surprise, a smile forming on their lips. They finally had it at
a disadvantage and would use that for all its worth. In unison, they charged.
Without hesitation, the Djinn dashed to its left at full speed, jumped toward
the dirt wall, spun around in mid-air, and kicked off. It propelled itself over
the heads of the attackers, rolled, and incapacitated them with a flurry of
kicks.

One by one,
Gerard’s men fell, moaning from the fury of the
Djinn’s
assault. Archibald, having come to in the midst of the violent struggle, lunged
forward, swinging his blade in an upward arc. The creature feigned to the left,
ducked, and swung its boot around to strike the lieutenant in the gut. He
collapsed with a grunt; blood spewing from his mouth, he went unconscious once
more.

Another soldier
leapt into the fray, swinging a spiked mace. The Djinn, attempting to pivot out
of the way, swung to its left, catching the edge of
Durgan’s
sword on its shoulder. Blood spewed out of the gaping wound, as it smashed its
palm to the side of the swordsman’s face. Pieces of teeth exploded from
Durgan’s
mouth as he sprawled to the ground.

The demon
resumed its attack. Clambering forward, it grabbed the wrists of two more men;
twisted upward, resulting in two loud cracks ringing out as bones splintered in
both soldiers’ arms.

Gerard’s men
were dwindling. There were only three left, including the mercenary
captain.
 
His head throbbed as he pushed
himself to his feet, glaring at the spectral apparition in front of him. The
thing glided across the chamber, whirling fists and feet with a maelstrom of
rage. The last two soldiers each lay curled in a ball, holding unseen injuries
and moaning.

The Djinn
turned silently to face Gerard. Blood gushed unnoticed from the creature’s
shoulder. It took a step forward and…what was that?

The creature
had stumbled, catching his balance before completely falling over. It had
instinctively grabbed for its knee.
Its leg.
It was
injured too. That was its “Achilles’ Heel!” The mercenary knew what he had to
do.

Gerard readied
his sword and hurled himself at the gruesome ghoul. The clash of metal echoed
through the web of tunnels as the two blades struck, jarring the mercenary’s
hands. Pulling back, he twisted round and hurled his sword once more at the
creature’s head.

The Djinn
rolled away, turned, and hurled two darts at Gerard’s torso. He managed to
dodge one of the projectiles, but was struck in the right shoulder by the
other. Wincing in pain, the mercenary tore the dart from his flesh and pounced.

The two rolled
end over end on the rocky ground of the tunnel, struggling to overcome the
other. Risking everything, he pulled a dagger from its sheath and jabbed deep
into the creature’s leg, twisting it furiously to maximize the damage.

To Gerard’s
horror, the Djinn made no sound, but leveled a backhand against the mercenary’s
face with such force that he was thrown off his enemy. The last thing he
remembered before everything went dark was the creature’s clawed fist barreling
down again across his face. Then, there was nothing.

****

The battle had
cost the Djinn precious time, as well as blood. Although the injuries he’d
sustained did not cause him pain, he felt faint. Too much of his blood had been
spilled and a gray haze began to cloud the corners of his vision. The sun would
undoubtedly be rising soon, effectively blocking all exits from the city…but
unless he found a place to rest and recoup from blood loss, it wouldn’t matter.

Following the
glowing mark on the eastern wall, he shuffled clumsily down a darkened
corridor. One more thing needed doing before he could take refuge among the
shadows of the maze of tunnels—he had to find what he had come for. He had to
find the Library. Find the
Sefer
Yetzirah
…the Book of Creation. Nothing else mattered.

Even though
he’d managed to secure the ring that was given to Solomon by, according to the
legends, an actual
djinn
named Aandaleeb, the scroll
might contain some secret to creating the golems that would allow Gregory to
make his army in another way. He couldn’t take the chance. Unless he found the
manuscript, the people of the
Outremer
would never be safe.

Stopping, he
quickly dressed his wounds and listened for signs of pursuit. Confident that he
was truly alone, he reached into the pouch around his waist and pulled out a
piece of cloth that shined with the same green glow he’d had Samuel use for the
wall marking and wrapped it around a piece of wood he’d taken from the Vault.
The illumination was minimal, but it gave off enough light to allow him to
proceed.

Taking a deep
breath, he pushed on and despite his injuries, he moved with amazing speed. He
had spent days studying the plans and diagrams of the tunnels that the baron’s
slaves had made. After close scrutiny of the maps and a careful examination of
Isabella’s medallion, the Djinn had discovered the most plausible location
where Solomon’s prized Library should have been hidden.

It had actually
been a stroke of luck—or perhaps providence—that all the sentries had been
drawn into one place at one time. Then, it was only a matter of shrouding them
in darkness and taking them out all at once.

It had all
worked out fairly well. If he didn’t think too much about the blood soaking
into the bandages around his leg and shoulder.

He stumbled
eastward until he came to a fork. One way supposedly led to an underground
river that opened up into a small pool on the outside of the city walls.
 
The other led to a secondary Hub, its webbing
of passages splaying out in all directions for countless miles. It was the
tunnel with the water he wanted. He chose the left one.

As he marched,
he reflected on the medallion Isabella had given him. It had been the key,
quite literally, and Gregory had missed it. The answer had been in front of the
baron all this time, but he had failed to see the importance of a single chip
of ruby embedded in the piece. Pushing his thoughts aside, the Djinn trudged on
through the darkened labyrinth.