The Nine Worlds of medieval times are threatened by threats from Norse and Gaelic mythology, and only the teenagers -- the Venetian mariner's daughter, Clarinda, and Hospitaller knight, Ríg -- can prevent the return of the darkest of the Artifacts o...
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, then staggered backward upon bowed legs, barely avoiding the edge of the cliff.
The old man didn't fare much better. 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 the animal's horny, black-padded knees brushed against the old man 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 startled birds and animals. 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 his last bit of whimsy.
I'm tired. Another moment of rest, perhaps.
Khajen ibn-Khaldun, a Muslim scholar and mystic, pulled the silken abafrom his face and inhaled a shallow draught of warming air. The month-old soreness from the injuries to his ribs yet lingered, and he had difficulty breathing. 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 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 hoped the sand dunes of the Nafud ad-Dahy desert, where he'd briefly joined a caravan of camel traders heading to Caesarea, had thrown his pursuers off his trail.
However, here, in the deceptive calm of early morning, Ibn-Khaldun knew better than to trust that his trackers had been diverted. Whenever Ibn-Khaldun had thought himself rid of his hunters, he'd discerned a faint, shadowed distortion on the horizon that revealed their steady advance. The old man swayed, semi-delirious, as he absorbed the sight of the Krak.
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Bits of stone and pebbles skittered down the slope as he made his descent. He focused on the ground before him, knowing well the ironic turns that Allah could create in human existence. It would be his ill fortune if he were to slip and break his neck this close to his destination!
Despite the tiredness, he felt reluctant to mount because of the package in the leather saddlebags. Even from these few paces away, Ibn-Khaldun felt the malignant presence of the thing, a virulence infecting the purity of the morning air.
