We’re killing it, Adalric thought. Then something clanked on his helmet and knocked it askew. It wasn’t the scorpion. Its sting and remaining set of claws were busy assailing other foes. He cast about; arrows were whistling down from overhead.
The Turkish bowmen could arc shafts over the fortress walls. But how did they know to loose at this particular time and at this particular section of the courtyard?
Only newly risen from his sickbed, Pierre gasped as an arrow pierced into his shoulder. Other men cried out in consternation.
“The Turks are shooting blind!” Adalric shouted! “We’ll be all right, but we have to kill the scorpion!” He cut at the head and hacked off one of the mouthparts. An instant later, an arrow plunged down and punctured one of the rearmost eyes. The vermin flailed its claws.
“Kill it!” Faramund roared. He struck a second blow with his axe.
Heartened, other Tafurs resumed attacking, and after a few moments, the scorpion fell. The segmented tail was the last part to stop moving, flipping back and forth in diminishing arcs.
“Now get under cover!” Adalric cried.
Once inside the keep, he checked on everyone’s condition. Fearsome though it had been, the huge scorpion had only killed the sentry, while the shower of arrows had only found Pierre, who appeared likely to recover.
“We were lucky,” Faramund said.
Perhaps so. But Adalric didn’t feel lucky, and he wondered just how enormous the next freakish scorpion would be.
Ibrahim stared at nothing, presumably looking through the eyes of one of the vermin in the fortress. Zeki wondered if a man could simply walk up to the sorcerer and kill him while he was in his trance.
Then he glimpsed a tiny scorpion crawling on Ibrahim’s foot. Zeki suspected it was playing watchdog. That didn’t mean it could read a man’s thoughts, but he still felt a ridiculous impulse to somehow convey to it that he’d merely been speculating and didn’t intend its master any harm. Then the sorcerer turned in his direction.
“How did we do?” Zeki asked.
“Not as well as I expected,” Ibrahim replied. “We got some venom into the cistern, but the scorpions only killed a single Frank. The archers hit another, but in all likelihood, not fatally.”
“That’s not good enough! Especially when we’re running short of arrows.”
“I promise you, Captain, in the end, it will all work out. If we simply continue applying pressure, the enemy will inevitably break.”
“Go on, then. Work more magic.”
“Tomorrow night. After I renew my power.”
Zeki frowned. “We’re out of prisoners.”
Ibrahim waved at the street behind them. “Walk with me, young sir. There’s no need for simple soldiers to overhear deliberations that might distress them.”
“Keep watch,” Zeki told one of the sergeants. Then, with a pang of trepidation, he followed Ibrahim into the dark.
“Like every village,” the wanderer said, “this one surely has one or two troublemakers as well as old, sick people who live in constant misery. If they fly off to Paradise as martyrs, won’t everyone be better off?”
“You can’t be serious!”
“You and your men need not take an active part. I can gather the harvest myself.”
“That’s not the issue! You’re talking about slaughtering our own people!”
“Only a handful, and as you and I have already agreed, in war a soldier must occasionally commit a small wrong to achieve a greater good.”
Zeki hesitated. “Even if that were true, how can you be sure the new deaths would give you enough power?”
The hairs around Ibrahim’s mouth stirred. “To explain,” he said, “I must take you deeper into my confidence than I originally intended or than may be comfortable for you to hear. But if you insist?”
“Yes.”
“As you wish, then. You likely assumed I’m simply taking the lives I reap and burning them like wood in a fire. But the truth is more complicated. The lives are offerings to something strong and old – think of it as a jinn if you like – and as I continue ingratiating myself, it grows increasingly generous in its turn. Once it fully accepts me as its imam… excuse me, vizier, cleaning out your fortress will be child’s play. Why, together, you and I will raise the siege of Antioch.”
“You sound like a blasphemer and mad as well.”
“Because I believe the Old One would favor me to that extent? You doubt because you haven’t seen the signs.” Ibrahim brushed his mustache and beard to the sides of his face to reveal the wet, protruding mouthparts twitching beneath.
Zeki cried out and snatched for the hilt of his scimitar. Then something pinched his calf. He looked down, and a black scorpion, long and skinny like a needle, scuttled up his leg.
“Please don’t slap at it,” Ibrahim said. “Magic has increased the virulence of its venom twentyfold.”
Heeding the warning, Zeki simply stood and trembled. Even when the scorpion writhed inside his clothing.
“It won’t hurt you,” Ibrahim said, “as long as you don’t attempt to betray our holy cause. So I implore you to forbear. Let me win us our victory, save you from disgrace, and make you the hero you yearn to be.”
Adalric surveyed the men assembled before him in the hall. Sleep, a meal, and daylight had steadied them, but fear still lurked in many a haggard face and perhaps even the stink of their unwashed bodies.
“We now know,” Adalric began, “that our situation is more desperate than we first supposed. The Turks are using witchcraft against us. We have to decide what to do about it.”
“Keep a guard on the cistern,” Faramund said. “The larder, too. Kill the giant scorpions whenever they turn up.”
“That’s one option,” Adalric said. “But for all we know, the water supply is already unsafe. Even if it isn’t, it seems likely the sorcerer, whoever he is, will work magic against us night after night, with the curses growling steadily stronger and the scorpions ever huger. I doubt we could hold out for long.”
“We might not have to,” Faramund said. “Bohemond’s men could show up to raise the siege tomorrow.”
“Because of the love the prince bears for King Tafur’s followers?”
Faramund snorted. “Fair enough. There’s not much chance of it, is there? But do we have another choice?”
Stefan pushed to the fore of the assembly. “Maybe,” he said, “it’s time to think about surrender.”
Some of his fellow Germans snarled, “Fuck that!” and “Coward!” But only some. A moment later, after the suggestion was translated for the Frenchmen’s benefit, perhaps half expressed similar sentiments in their own language.
Stefan bore his comrades’ scorn without flinching. “I don’t like the notion, either,” he said, “but how long can ordinary men last against witchcraft?”
“The warlock works his magic at night,” Adalric said. “That’s when the scorpions grow and do his bidding. If we make a move before sunset, he may not be able to harm us.”
Stefan sneered. “‘May not.’ That’s not reassuring coming from someone who’s been wrong about everything up to now. You said we’d raid the village and get away before the patrol returned. We didn’t. You claimed we’d be safe in the fort. We aren’t. When the first big scorpion appeared, you told us it was a natural creature. Now you admit you were mistaken about that, too.”
“I do admit it,” Adalric said. “Since we came here, I’ve been wrong more than once. In my defense, I can only say that in war, nothing is certain, and that I don’t see how anyone could have predicted the Turks would use witchcraft against us. They never did before, even at the massacre outside Civetot.”