The Wayward Godking

The Red Cross of Gold XXX:.

“The Wayward GodKing ”

Assassin Chronicles

By

Brendan Carroll

Copyright 2012

The Wayward Godking
dedicated to everyone believes that Planet Earth is overdue for a cosmic spring cleaning.

The characters are fictional and any resemblance to real persons alive or dead is unintentional and coincidental.

Brendan Carroll can be reached at
[email protected]
for comments and/or questions.

Warning copyrighted material:

No part of the contents of this publication may be copied, printed or sold without permission of the author.

Published by Brendan Carroll

Copyright 2012 Brendan Carroll

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Prologue

Lucio doubled over the horse’s withers, clutching his stomach. The horse had stopped in the breakwaters. He could hear the waves crashing on the rocks further down the beach. The salt spray collected on his beard and his hair and gave him some small respite from the heat and the searing pain in his midsection. It would be only a matter of time before the Saracen devils were upon him, and here he would die in the shallow waters of the beautiful, blue sea, but it would not end there. They would defile his body, take his head and his armor and hang his headless body on the walls of the city. His head would be displayed on a pike somewhere along the road leading into the city as a grisly warning to other Christians. Of course, he wouldn’t really care by then, but he hated the thought of allowing them the pleasure of seeing him suffer at the moment. They weren’t even hurrying after him.

The Knight dragged his silver helmet from his head and dropped it in the water at the horse’s feet. The splash made the horse prance nervously and the movement caused more pain. He gritted his teeth, refusing to let them hear him moan and groan. When this latest wave of nausea subsided, he pushed himself upright in the saddle and adjusted his small triangular shield on his forearm before gaining a better grip on his sword. His last effort and remaining strength would be directed at carrying as many of his pursuers as possible with him into Paradise or Hell, whichever was nearest at hand.

He raised his face and the tip of the blade to the deep blue, cloudless sky and made the sign of the cross with the hilt of his sword.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” he whispered an abbreviated confession, and then pulled on the horse’s reins, turning the sturdy black destrier back toward certain death.

The Italian wondered vaguely how he had become separated from his Brothers. He and five more from the Commanderie had been patrolling the south road out of the city for a reported pack of Infidel thieves, who had been harassing a train of pilgrim recently come to the Holy Lands from Italy. They had found no thieves, but rather an ambush and now here he was, all alone, facing over a dozen fully armed, well-fared horsemen bearing Saladin’s banner. An ambush.

Nothing was going right today. He’d had yet another argument with Sir Ramsay the night previous, and the noble Knight had threatened to beat him senseless and leave him lying in the ditches like a dog. And all because of a little flirtation and a great deal of wine and a lost purse. So he had been a little careless, but it was only money and money profited a poor Knight nothing. How could he be a
poor
Knight, if he had a purse full of gold rubles in the first place? A distinct contradiction. He pressed his hand once more against the bleeding wound in his side and watched in fascination as the bright red liquid sprang up through his fingers and ran down his leg.

With one last thought of his benefactor, and the fact he wished fervently Sir Ramsay had been there to die gloriously alongside him; to shrive one another and face these dogs together, he gritted his teeth, raised his sword and kicked the horse viciously, spurring it headlong into the teeth of the dragon. The Saracens rose up in their saddles, guiding their mounts with their knees as they nocked arrows in their bows, making ready to turn him into a red and white Templar pin cushion.

But the enemy abruptly veered leaving Lucio charging blindly through the spot they should have met. They were riding off up the beach, leaving him behind. He yanked on the reins, turned the horse again, almost taking a fall into the sand and started after them in rage-powered folly. How dare they leave him to die in the sun? They would finish what they had started, and he would be allowed to suffer a valiant martyr’s death.

He screamed a curse to the sky after them, and then allowed his rage to overrule not only his better sense, but the pain in his side as well.

One of the infidels at the rear of the group looked over his shoulder at the pursuing Knight, and then, shouted something to his companions. They looked back at him, stunned to see him riding after them. A moment earlier he had been dying. Now he was chasing them! But they were riding to meet a new challenge. Two white horses stood at the crest of the nearest sand dune. The morning sun reflected off the white shields and glinted on the silver swords and chain mail the riders wore. The Saracens raised a war cry as they charged the two Templar Knights. The Templars turned their mounts and retreated down the far side of the berm out of sight. The infidel warriors, spurred on by the apparent cowardice of the Christians, renewed their war cries and rode up and over the crest of the hill.

The injured Knight encouraged by the sight of his brethren, kicked the horse and rode full tilt up the dune. As he neared the crest, he could hear the screams of both men and horses.

When he topped the rise, expecting the worst, he was shocked to see a sizable company of Templar’s dispatching the last of the Saracen cavalry.

The Italian’s senses and sensory perceptions returned
en masse
, and he fell headlong from his horse into the sand and rolled down the incline toward the bloodied ground at the foot of the dune. Within minutes, strong arms lifted his face from the grit, and cool water poured over his eyes. When he opened his eyes, Mark Ramsay peered into his face with a worried frown, and then shook his head.

“I told you I’d be back, little brother,” the Scot said harshly. “Why do you never believe me?”

Lucio blinked at him, smiled, and felt the pain in his side fade. The sky went black and the sound of the waves subsided.

Chapter One of Twelve

Hast thou perceived the breadth of the earth?

declare if thou knowest it all.

A long, rooster tail plume made of dust followed the old, but well-kept Land Rover as it sped down the rocky remnant of paved road toward the Count’s pavilion. Pope Paul VII, formerly Cardinal Paolo Gambrelli, stood quickly, overturning the small canvas stool on which he had been seated. The folding table with the remains of the commander’s lunch was forgotten at the sight of the returning scouts.

Count Polunsky and two of his lieutenants followed the excited man into the sun and stood waiting for the vehicle to come to a stop in front of them.

The doors flew open and the two soldiers tumbled out of the Rover as if the devil, himself, were inside the truck with them. They scrabbled about gathering their weapons and then snapped to attention in front of their commanding officers.

“Report, Sergeant,” the senior lieutenant ordered.

“Sir, it is just as His Eminence has described. The structure is built in the rocks above the passage, but the terrain is not suitable for mechanized equipment. We will have to go on foot. There is a trail that leads up to the target area, and it seems there has been a good deal of foot traffic both man and beast, but nothing recently. Evidence of campfires and abandoned latrines, sir. I would hazard a guess that several hundred people stayed in the area for a few days, possibly a week or more, and then struck out on foot and horseback. Private Amani, who is studied in the local culture’s beliefs says they were of nomadic origins, judging from the waste carelessly left behind. We did find some interesting anomalies.” The sergeant reached in a canvass pouch attached to his belt and pulled out several colorful slips of paper and other small items. “Notebook paper, sir. French poetry. Empty pen barrel and an empty glass bottle that might have held cologne.”

Gambrelli took the items and handed some of it to Polunsky. He squinted at the script on the wadded, blue paper.

“My heart is filled with longing and my head cannot be free until I find myself home again and you are there with… me?” He read the words and looked up at the Count.

“More of the same here with slight variations,” Polunsky nodded. “Hardly a common hobby amongst the Bedouin. Writing French poetry. Whoever it was needs to put more effort into his practice,” he muttered.

“It was not a Bedouin who wrote this,” the Pope smiled. “It is proof we have come to the right place. This was one of d’Brouchart’s men, possibly one of the d’Ornan brothers. They seemed a bit silly and foppish to me. Frenchmen! Who needs them?”

“We have quite a few of them in our ranks, Your Grace,” Polunsky leaned close to his ear and whispered. “We may need them.”

“Ahhh. My apologies,” the Pope said and then kissed the sergeant on both cheeks, thanking him for his contribution to the cause.

“Lieutenant Spruiell,” Polunsky addressed his commander. “Make the troops ready to march. We will leave for the mountain at first light.”

Both lieutenants bowed slightly, and then saluted the Baron before hurrying off toward the encampments.

((((((((((((()))))))))))))

“Plotius, for the love of light…” Ereshkigal dropped her pen and looked up at her captain above the rim of her glasses. “Whatever it is, just spit it out.”

The captain licked his lips and looked as if he were trying to comply with her orders though he had nothing in his mouth.

“Your Majesty,” he began again, “I would like to escort someone to the event.”

“Excuse me?” Ereshkigal frowned. “Escort someone? Do we have prisoners I know nothing about?”

“Not a prisoner, ma’am.” Plotius chewed his bottom lip and looked away from her. “A lady.”

“A lady?!” Ereshkigal stood up. The queen brushed her long, dark hair from her face and repeated his words again slowly . “A lady?”

“An elf, Your Highness.” The Boggan looked down at the ground and kicked at a stone with the toe of his hob-nailed boot.

“How came an elf to be here, Plotius?” Her initial surprise subsided and curiosity overcame her wonder.

“She is not here. She is in the king’s realm. She is a Tuathan, my Queen.” His cheeks flamed and he bowed his head, expecting the worst.

“A Tuathan?” Ereshkigal smiled and then laughed softly. “How do you know it is a lady, Plotius? They all look the same to me.”

“They are not all the same if you look close enough, my Queen,” he said and looked up briefly, relieved he had not been sent packing right away. “You simply have to get to know them.”

“And when did you get to know this Tuathan?” Ereshkigal sat down again and pretended not to be overly interested in what he had to say. One could not afford to be overly impressed or surprised by servants and/or soldiers.

“I met her when we were out hunting, Your Highness,” he explained. “We were about to make a good kill. A fine pony, but we did not see the rider nearby. She was in a tree, gathering fruit. When my archer drew down on the beast, she threw herself on his back to save her pony.”

“How touching,” the Queen said.

“She would have been killed, but for my intervention. I felt sorry for her.” He raised his chin slightly, clearly insulted by her seeming indifference. “I thought it was what you wanted in me, Your Grace.”

Ereshkigal looked up at the confused Boggan and saw he was actually crying. Not weeping or sobbing, but tears were on his face. She had hurt his feelings, and the realization made her feel ill. She was truly changing, and the change frightened her. In the not so distant past, her Boggans would have killed the pony and the Tuathan and roasted them both for supper.

“It is what I want, Plotius.” She smiled at him and then reached out one hand to his face. He jerked his head away from her touch instinctively. “I am awfully busy, however.” She drew back her hand and her offer of affection. “I did not mean to offend you. I think you have made remarkable progress… William.”

At that name, he jerked his head around and stared at her. He’d not heard it in ages and ages. William.
His human name
. Bradford William.