The Scroll

Prologue

Two sand clouds rose from the desert floor, the larger one threatening to engulf the smaller one in front. There was no wind to blow the sand either back towards Jerusalem or away from it, and so, strangely, it hung in the air fed by the pounding hooves below.

The Templar knew that the race was lost. His fellow knights, riding towards him were too far away. He knew that they would not reach him in time. A glance over his shoulder confirmed his fears; the Saracens were closing faster, their pursuit across the desert's burning sands relentless. The Templar did not fear for himself, only that the precious item he carried did not fall back into the Saracens hands. He eased back on the reins, giving relief to his blown horse.

Seeing their quarry slow the leading Saracens spurred their horses, wanting the honour of capturing the infidel. As they thundered across the desert floor the leading Saracen, gripping his horse tight with his knees, drew back on his bow string taking careful aim at the Templar's back.

Desperately the Templar tried to hide the small, but priceless, object he carried. His horse was moving at little more than a trot now, sucking in great gulps of the scorching desert air. The Templar pitched forward across his horse's neck as the arrow hit him high in the back.

The Saracen archer cried in triumph and steadied himself for a second shot. Slowing his horse he drew back his bow again, patiently waiting for the infidel to sit up in the saddle.

The Templar looked at the arrowhead protruding from his chest. He patted his horse's neck as he forced himself upright in the saddle. Instantly a second arrow thudded into his back, driving him from his horse onto the burning sand.

The Templar drew his sword and, thrusting it into the sand, pulled himself up onto his knees. The Templar looked up and faced his enemies.

Seeing the Templar fall from his horse the archer raised his hand bringing a halt to the Saracen charge. He looked past the fallen Templar, judging the distance to the oncoming infidel army. Smiling he motioned for six of his men to join him.

The Templar watched their approach, cold now despite the desert heat. The Saracens formed a loose circle around him, at the very limit of his swords reach. Their leader, whose arrow's jutted from the Templar's chest, leapt effortlessly from his mount.

"You are a brave but foolish man," he said, reaching for the bag tied to the saddle of the Templar's horse. He pulled out a golden cup, encrusted with precious stones. "Tell me, do you really believe that your Christ actually drank from this cup, and that it will help you to victory over the armies of Allah?"

"I do not believe in magic," the Templar replied, "I believe that Jesus came to save all men."

The Saracen leader drew his curved sword, resting its tip under the Templar's chin so that the sun reflected into his eyes.

"I do not see him here to save you," the Saracen taunted, "but if you renounce your false prophet and embrace Allah he has the power to save you from your wounds."

The Templar stared back defiantly at the Saracen. "If it is God's will that I die here today then so be it. I ask only one thing of you."

"And what is it that you desire more than life?" the Saracen asked.

"Water, would you deny a dying foe a last drink?"

The Saracen looked down at the dying infidel. Despite the pain that he must be suffering a light still shone bright in his eyes. The Saracen looked away and sheathed his sword. A goatskin water bottle hung from the Templar's saddle. There was a hole in its side.

"Here," he laughed as he re-mounted his horse and threw the goatskin down in front of the Templar. Water seeped from the hole into the sand. "Enjoy what there is."

"I shall, thank you. It will last me for eternity. May God have mercy on you," the Templar replied calmly.

"Infidel!" the Saracen swore. With a last look at the Templar he raised the golden cup to the sky in victory, laughed and galloped away.

The Knights Templar were close enough to see the golden cup glow in the sun's rays as it was raised aloft. As one they roared a challenge to the Saracens, but the Saracens had no intention of giving battle this day; and continued their withdraw on rested horses.

Lord Sherwood dismounted and walked to the dying Templar. If it were not for the arrows in his back it would appear that the Templar was deep in prayer. His forehead rested on his hands atop his sword, which formed the perfect cross. The water skin still lay where it had fallen, the little water in now claimed by the desert. Lord Sherwood knelt at his side.

The Templar opened his eyes and, staring intently at Lord Sherwood, drew a deep breath to gather his strength.

"They don't have it," he gasped, "they only took the cup. The water skin..."

"It's empty," Lord Sherwood replied, "someone pass..."

"No, it's not. Look inside," the Templar gasped.

Lord Sherwood carefully slit the water skin. He pulled out a clay tube, with cork plugs at both ends. His eyes widened, the closest knights fell silent, not daring to believe. Lord Sherwood looked in awe at the clay tube in his hand, and then down at the Templar.

"Is this?"

"Yes," replied the Templar, "they knew not what they had." He looked up at Lord Sherwood and the knights around him. "These are His words and teachings by His own hand."

The Templar's body shook, his chest heaved. He felt so cold. When he spoke again his voice was little more than a whisper, but it carried across the sands.

"Yes, I am ready now." The Templar fell forward, across his sword into the sand. For a moment it rose and swirled around him; covering his body. Ashes to ashes, slowly the sand settled where he had fallen. Lord Sherwood and his companions stared, stunned, at the spot where the Templar had lain; he was gone. Dust to dust.