The Djinn (24 page)

A.D.
1190 – Cairo, Five years later

Al-
Dula
ibn
Abdul
’s lungs heaved violently against his chest as his bleeding
bare feet pounded against the cobblestone street. He wasn’t sure how much
further he could go. He’d already been running since sunset and now it was
nearly midnight. The Saracen warlord knew he had to find shelter, fast, from
the demon.

The demon.
He’d believed the creature had died…nothing more than a
mere leper dressed as an ancient spirit. He’d even watched, from the safety of
a desert dune, as the subterranean explosion had
shook
the entire encampment. He’d seen the man’s friends set the remains of his
estate ablaze, in hopes that even without a body, his spirit would be lifted up
to the heavens. He was certain the man was dead.
But two
years ago, shortly after Saladin conquered Jerusalem, liberating it from the
infidels, stories of the Djinn and its demonic army resurfaced.

Since that time, the creature and its
Knightshades
,
as its army was called, seemed bent on finding Al-Dula. No matter where he
settled, the demon would soon follow, as if some invisible force guided the
Djinn on its quest. The skill and manner in which it had hunted him, Al-Dula
was beginning to believe it truly was a spirit sent from Allah as punishment
for his sins.

A piercing, unearthly howl erupted from somewhere behind
him, snapping him out of his reverie and urging him forward. The cry that
sailed through the winds of the autumn Cairo night could not possibly be human.
A sliver of ice slid down the back of his neck, his body shaken by
uncontrollable spasms.

Coming to the corner of a house built from desert sand and
hardened by years of the blistering sun, Al-Dula peered around, looking for
signs of his pursuer. A plan was forming in his brain. He had to rest first.
Just a few minutes
was
all he would need. Then, he
would make his way to
Shefara’s
Pub and hide away in
one of the rooms on the second floor. Al-
Nafani’s
men
would be there. They would keep him safe. Secure. Nothing—not even a spirit of
vengeance sent by Allah himself—would be able to slip past those nomadic
warriors.

Catching one more breath, the Saracen sprinted across the
street, moving onto a horse trail of dirt and droppings. The pub was only two
more blocks away. He craned his head, listening.
Nothing.
No more inhuman howling. Not even the sound of feet padding the rooftops above,
as he had heard only a half a mile before. Perhaps the creature had given up.
He might have actually lost the Djinn in the maze-like streets of Cairo.

He darted in and out of the shadows without incident until he
came to
Shefara’s
Pub. He slipped quietly through the
oak doors and up to the bar where
Shefara
scrubbed
away at the filth clinging to the bottom of one of her mugs. She gave him a
curt glance of acknowledgment and continued at her task.

“
Shefara
,
is Al-
Nafani
here?” he demanded,
breathing heavily and wiping away the perspiration that dotted his forehead.
His tunic and robes were soaked with sweat. His portly frame was not meant for
such a run. His eyes scanned the room nervously.

Shefara
looked up at the warlord and smiled. The few teeth
remaining in her mouth were blackened and stained with disease.

“He’s here, all right,” she said as she chipped away at
some hardened mass on the edge of a wooden goblet. “But I expect he’s in no
mood to be seeing you tonight, Al-Dula.”

Al-Dula understood what she meant. After Saladin’s victory
of the westerners, men such as Al-
Nafani
and Al-Dula
were now wanted for treason against the great warrior who’d liberated the Holy
City in the name of Allah and unified the people. For the two of them to be
seen together, would be the same as screaming their intentions of overthrowing
their new Sultan.

But the Saracen had more immediate concerns at the moment.
The Djinn would track him down sooner or later. He needed a place to hide…to
think about his next move and he needed protection to do it. His own men had
been slaughtered by the creature and his demon army earlier that night. Only he
had survived to fight another day. But it would mean little if he could not
procure the protection he needed. Thankfully, Al-
Nafani
was as mercenary as anyone could be. For the right price, he would offer up his
men no matter what the Sultan thought.

“I do not care of your opinion, woman!” he said, tossing a
silver coin on the bar. “Get him. Bring him to my room.”

Without waiting for a response, Al-Dula darted up the
rickety staircase and plowed into the bedchamber he’d hired on retainer. He
slammed the door shut, barred the door, and dropped to the thin mat on the
floor used for sleeping.

Finally, with some modicum of safety, he reached into a
pouch around underneath his robes and removed the metal cylinder containing the
Sefer
Yetzirah
, the
Book of Creation. In the five years since coming into possession of the scroll,
he’d only recently managed to find someone capable of translating the ancient
Hebraic text. But he’d never been able to get the book to the old man long
enough for a full translation to be conducted. Every time he came close, the
Djinn would appear and force him on the run once more. It was maddening.
   

He attempted to stifle a chuckle at the irony—the two
objects that would have given him an invincible army strong enough to overthrow
that pompous braggart Saladin, and one was buried in a collapsed cavern under
tons of rock and the other was, well, unreadable to him. His fingers mindlessly
traced the intricately carved relief along the side of the scroll’s container
in his hands.

He stashed the Book away in his robes when footsteps
scrambled in front of his door. His heart raced as he drew his dagger carefully
from the sheath tucked into his belt. Strong fists pounded against the door.

“Let me in, you traitorous dog!” commanded the bark-like
voice of Al-
Nafani
. “I haven’t got all night. There’s
still ale to drink and women to see to.”

The Saracen scrambled to his feet and rushed to open the
door. Ushering his guest in, he scanned the corridor outside and secured his
room once again. Taking a deep breath, he turned to face the man he was about
to trust his life with…a man who had always hated and despised him.

“I need your help,” he said, staring his one-time enemy in
the face. “And I’ll pay handsomely for it.”

****

Al-Dula felt secure for the first time that night, nestled
in his bedchamber with four armed guards just outside the doorway. His window
was now barred from the outside with iron grating. Al-
Nafani’s
best men lay in bunks downstairs in the tavern area. And nearly one hundred
other mercenaries kept watch outside in the city streets. Al-
Nafani’s
services did not come cheap, but the fee was well
deserved.

The Saracen peered through the bars of his windows at the
street. The sun would be up in three hours and he praised Allah for that.
Spirits such as the Djinn tended to avoid direct daylight and he would once
again be able to slip away safely. Only a few more hours and he’d be free once
more.

His thumb absently caressed the smooth contours of the
scroll as he watched one of the mercenaries scampering for the cover of shadow
across the stone paved street.
If only
I’d recovered the ring
, he thought.
I’d
be able create my own army
of golems
and
the demon would never be able to come near me again
.

Al-Dula crouched down and found his place on the bed mat in
the complete darkness of the room. He knew he shouldn’t sleep. Though he faced
a long day ahead and would need some rest, sleep was simply out of the
question. His eyes closed only a few seconds before he felt the siren song of
sleep creeping up on him. He knew it was a mistake, but he’d been awake for so
long now. The mercenaries were on watch. What harm could there be in just a few
minutes slumber? His thoughts trailed off as the oblivion of dreams engulfed
him.

His eyes snapped open with a start. A warm, red glow broke
through the barred windows, casting a symphony of shadows that danced to the
rhythm of Al-
Dula’s
beating heart. He became even
more alert from the sounds of many feet running from the public house.
What was going on
?
What was happening?

Al-Dula clambered to his knees and peeked over the sill of
his window. His widened eyes stared in horror as Al-
Nafani’s
men fled from the flames that were now consuming the building. The mercenaries
were abandoning him, not even looking back to see
Shefara’s
public house going up in flames. The cowards were running away.

“Allah
preserve
me,” the Saracen
muttered to himself as he reached for his cloak, threw it around his shoulders
and unsheathed his sword. His chest heaved, but Al-Dula could not seem to
gather enough air into his lungs. He looked down at the crack under the door.
Black smoke ebbed its way through into his room. The fire had reached the
second floor of the pub. Al-Dula had no choice. He could either stay and die in
the flames or flee and hope to escape the
Djinn’s
trap.

There really was no choice.

Throwing open the door, a wave of heat and smoke pushed the
Saracen back momentarily.
Like the flames
of hell itself
, he thought as he pushed forward into the blinding darkness
of smoke and fire. He staggered through debris, inching his way toward the
staircase and hopefully to freedom. His hand reached out, gripping the banister
and he leaped three creaking steps at a time until he reached the landing.

The bar room wasn’t as bad as the floor above, with only
scattered fires torching a few of the tables and chairs. Across the room lay
the oak door of the exit and survival.
Only a few more feet.
He pushed forward only to stop abruptly as the pub’s door opened to reveal the
solemn face of Al-
Nafani
, sword in hand.

“I’m sorry, old friend,” the mercenary said, as he blocked
the exit. “You paid well. But the Djinn paid better.”

With the last comment, he nodded his head toward the back
of the bar room. Al-Dula turned slowly around to see the black clad visage of
the demonic spirit that had ruined the lives of so many. The creature stood
stock still,
neither speaking or
moving. Its
taloned
hands gripped two large scimitars, which whirled in
tandem with one another. The creature was demonstrating its skill with the
blade.

The door slammed shut behind the Saracen. The thieving
mercenary had locked him in here with the beast. The creature that now walked
casually toward Al-Dula with menacing grace. Its long, black flowing cloak,
hood, and shroud seemed to meld themselves with the fire, smoke, and
shadows…giving off a completely eldritch appearance.

“What do you want from me?” Al-Dula screamed, backing his
way toward the door. On instinct, he drew his sword from his belt and held it
out toward the Djinn. He couldn’t stop his arm from shaking. He lost his grip
and the blade crashed helplessly to the ground.

“Please. What do you want?”

The creature, not saying a word, glided freely through the
film of smoke that now filled the air. It was as if the Djinn
was
born of the flames themselves.

“Answer me!” he screamed as his knees buckled and he collapsed
to the doorstep with nowhere else to run. His lungs burned as tears of both
fear and smoke filled his eyes.

The creature stopped, just short of the Saracen. From all
around them, movement caught Al-
Dula’s
attention.
From the shadows, black armored warriors materialized, completely surrounding
the once powerful warlord.
The
Knightshade
.

He was beaten.
I will
die here this night
, he thought to himself as he scanned the room at the
silent sentries that watched mercilessly.

The Djinn moved forward, bent down, and reached its hand
inside Al-
Dula’s
tunic. When the hand was withdrawn,
it opened to reveal the Book of Creation.

“This does not belong to you,” the creature said quietly.
The voice was strange. Not at all what the Saracen had expected. It was melodious,
not course and fearful. “Its rightful guardian is here now…to take it from
you.”

The scroll dropped back into Al-
Dula’s
lap.

“As for you, murderer of good and noble men,” the Djinn
continued. “If you make it out alive tonight, see to it that you never return
to the
Outremer
again.”

That voice.
So strange.
So beautiful.
Beyond what he had ever expected…what was it
the creature had just said? He would live? His heart beat heavily against his
breast. This was too much to believe. He would live. But the creature
continued.