He took a breath. “But it doesn’t matter if I’m shrewd or stupid. It matters that we came on this journey vowing to do the work of God. We assumed that meant killing the Turks who prey on pilgrims bound for Jerusalem, but we’ve found a greater evil even than that. We’ve come face to face with Satan himself. We can’t surrender to him. We have to defy him with our last breath.”
Faramund smiled a crooked smile. “Yes,” he said, “if only because, if we serve ourselves up to a devil worshipper, he’s likely to do even worse than make us renounce Jesus and slice off our foreskins. Better to fall in battle than be tortured to death on Hell’s altar.”
The Tafurs muttered back and forth. Then they drew themselves up straighter, and one of the Frenchmen called, “We’re with you, Sir Knight!” Either Adalric’s words had swayed his followers or their innate grit and faith were buttressing their resolve.
Stefan grimaced. “So be it, then. But if we won’t surrender and can’t stay in the fort, what do we do?”
“The only thing left,” Adalric said. “Throw open the gate and try to break through the Turks. Some of us will die, but with God’s help, some may survive to carry warning of the warlock back to Bohemond.”
Some in this instance meaning one or two, and only if God was finally inclined to provide His ragtag soldiers with a miracle.
The Turkish soldiers surrounded the fortress in groups of three or four wherever cover could be found. Though it was unlikely an infidel archer shooting from the battlements could hit a vulnerable foeman at this distance, it was nonetheless prudent to deny them the opportunity.
Zeki prowled from one position to the next inspecting the arrangements. He was sure the sergeants checked periodically to correct any deficiencies and did so with a keener eye than his own. But he wanted a distraction from the creature nestled between his shoulder blades.
He suspected from the occasional twinges and constant itching that the scorpion had hooked tiny claws at the end of its legs into his skin. Perhaps his back was bleeding, but if so, the rectangular iron plates of his lamellar armor, the padding underneath, and the tunic under that would hide the blood, and anyway, no one could help him even if it were visible.
He just had to endure the discomfort and, worse, his gnawing dread of the creature’s sting as best he could. If he could only bear up, all would be well. The Franks would surrender or perish, Ibrahim would relieve him of his hideous minder, and in due course the world would hail him as a hero.
Except, he thought as entered another house that afforded a view of the stronghold, it wasn’t that simple.
Ibrahim stood revealed as a monster in service to a greater monster. How, then, could Zeki believe anything he said about his intentions regarding the war in general or his unwilling collaborator’s ultimate fate in particular?
He couldn’t, and even were it otherwise, how could he allow the sorcerer to murder innocent people to achieve his ends? It was his duty to protect them!
If he didn’t at least try, then what would it matter what his superiors or even his own family thought of him? Forever after, he’d know he truly was the incompetent weakling he’d always feared being, a cringing dupe who could be controlled by vermin riding him like a horse.
“Captain?” Murat asked.
Startled, Zeki jumped. “Yes?”
“You walked in,” the burly, black-bearded sergeant said, “and then you didn’t say anything. Is something wrong?”
“No,” Zeki replied, “I was just thinking. What’s your appraisal of our situation?”
“Well,” Murat said, “nothing has changed since last night when we loosed those volleys of arrows. Honestly, sir, I advise against any more blind shooting whatever your friend the scholar recommends. We don’t have enough—“
Without warning – or at least he prayed the scorpion didn’t sense his intent – Zeki threw himself backward and slammed his shoulders into the wall.
An instant later, he felt a stab. The scorpion was still alive. The padding under his armor had protected it.
He pounded it again, and it responded with more stings. Zeki was surely a dead man now. All that remained to him was to make sure his killer didn’t survive, either.
He bashed it, and it scuttled onto the top of his shoulder. Apparently the repeated impacts had alarmed it at last. It scraped the side of his neck as its pincers and head emerged from under his layers of armor and garment.
Screaming, he grabbed it, ripped it all the way out, and dashed it to the floor. Then he stamped on it repeatedly, reducing it to scraps and slime before realizing that Murat and the other soldiers were gaping at him in astonishment.
“That… was a big one,” the sergeant said.
“It’s killed me,” Zeki gasped. Then he realized that, although the stings were burning and throbbing, he didn’t feel consciousness slipping away.
“Let’s take a look,” Murat said. He helped Zeki remove his armor and tunic and then inspected his back. “They’re going to hurt, that’s certain. But they don’t look any worse than other scorpion stings.”
Zeki surprised himself by laughing. “The son of a dog didn’t really make the venom deadly. He thought me coward enough that the mere threat would paralyze me.”
“Who, sir? Your so-called sorcerer?”
“Yes. Ibrahim put the scorpion on me. How much do you understand about him?”
Murat hesitated. “Again, if I’m to speak honestly, I know you put great stock in him. But some of the men claim to sense evil hanging over the village since he arrived. I just thought he was a lunatic or a fraud.”
“I wish you had been right,” Zeki said. “You were right in thinking I never should have trusted him. But he truly does command magic, and not for the glory of Allah whatever he claims. If we don’t stop him, he’ll do terrible things with it.”
The sergeant frowned. “If he is what you say, can we stop him?”
“I hope so. He mostly casts his spells at night. That suggests he’s weaker during the day. Perhaps we can even catch him sleeping.”
Murat grunted. “That sounds sensible. Do we arrest or kill him?”
“Kill.”
“Yes, sir, and how many men do you judge that will take?” Murat smiled wryly. “We do still have a fort full of infidels to deal with.”
Zeki’s instinct was to lead his entire force against Ibrahim, but he did need to keep the Franks contained, and if he suggested otherwise, Murat would think he was crazy. He might believe it anyway, but if so, he was willing to humor his poor deluded captain if it meant disposing of a troublemaker whose presence undermined morale.
“If there are only a few of us,” Zeki said, “we can sneak up on him more easily. Let’s say four of the men, you, and me.”
“You, sir? You’ve just gotten hurt.”
“I can stand it. It’s my fault Ibrahim gained a foothold here and my responsibility to deal with him.” He swallowed away an excess of saliva, perhaps another manifestation of the venom in his system. “Help me put my armor back on.”
Despite the cloth underneath, the weight of the lamellae plates chafed his stings and made them hurt worse. He tried not to let it show as Murat gathered and instructed the soldiers who would accompany them.
In due course, they set forth, and people who spied them hurried indoors. Apparently Zeki and his companions had a grim cast to their expressions, or at any rate, something about their mien conveyed they’d embarked on an ugly business.
When Ibrahim’s temporary lodgings came into view, everything was quiet. Zeki blinked away a momentary blurriness, likely another symptom of his poisoning, and he and his men prowled up to the little house.