CHAPTER FOUR
Kieran’s first sign of trouble was when a projectile sailed past his head, very nearly clipping him on the helm. Startled, he yanked the charger to a halt as he tried to determine where the arrow came from. It would do no good to tear off in a panic and run right into the enemy. It was a very dark night and it took him some time to see a dark tide of figures cresting a sandy plateau in the distance. They didn’t emit a sound as they rode in his direction; the only sound in the air was that of more arrows sailing towards him through the still desert air.
They were coming from the southwest, spreading out as they reached the base of the plateau. Kieran spurred his charger east, thundering out into the desolate land at top speed. He was at a distinct disadvantage. Rory was behind him and he was terrified that she would catch a stray arrow in the back. But he could not spare the time to stop the horse and remount her in front of him. His only hope was to maintain distance between him and the onslaught until he could lose them. He was familiar with the surrounding territory and he knew he was heading into increasingly open desert.
Behind him, Rory awoke with a start as the horse sped off at a gallop. She yelped, almost losing her seat but for Kieran still gripping her hands around his waist. He held her fast.
“What’s wrong?” she cried. “What are you…?”
Another arrow sailed past them. This time, Rory heard it and she yelped again, burying her head against Kieran’s back.
“Oh, my God,” she squealed. “What’s going on? Who’s attacking us?”
Kieran didn’t answer; he just kept running. There were a few settlements to the southeast, further out into the oases that dotted the deserts of this land, and he knew that Danun Castle about a morning’s ride from Nahariya. At the moment, Danun Castle was occupied by Christian forces as it perched like a lioness on a rocky hill overlooking the arid countryside. Kieran had even spent some time there when he had first arrived in The Levant, another name for the Holy Land. He knew the castle well and he knew it would provide ample protection if they could only reach it. He pushed the horse faster.
More arrows sailed past, one of them glancing off of the armor on Kieran’s right arm. Terrified, Rory tucked herself into a ball and huddled against Kieran’s back, praying they would live through this. She just couldn’t imagine that God, or whatever deity existed, had allowed them both to return to Kieran’s time only to be murdered by bandits. The wind was whistling past her and the horse’s fast gallop had her teeth rattling, but she held on tight and continued to pray. Panic or a lot of frenzied questions would not help Kieran get them out of this bind.
They flew across the rocky, sandy terrain. The wind whistled around them, whipping Rory’s braids into a frenzy. The land was relatively flat but there were small, rocky outcroppings jutting intermittently out of the ground, like little hills. Kieran directed the horse around these outcroppings, creating some measure of barrier between them and their pursuers. The silver moon was a sliver against the night sky but it was enough light for Kieran to see where he was going and navigate in the direction of Danun Castle. He still didn’t see any familiar landmarks as he concentrated on heading in the right direction, making sure Rory didn’t slide off behind him, and ensuring that the bandits trying to catch them didn’t get the chance. He was cool, collected and professional. He’d dealt with ambushes before and was relatively confident he could elude them.
But his calm demeanor shattered when Liberator suddenly went down. The horse stepped in a hole in the darkened desert landscape and went head over heels, pitching Kieran and Rory off. Kieran did nothing more than hit heavily in all of his weighty armor, which protected him from the fall, but Rory sailed through the air and landed on her head and right shoulder. Knocked unconscious, she lay lifeless as Kieran rolled to his feet.
Liberator was unharmed except for a big scrape on the side of his neck. He remained next to Kieran as the knight bolted into a standing position. He raced to Rory, lying motionless on the sand, and gathered her into his arms.
“Sweetheart,” he murmured urgently. “Can you hear me? Wake up, Lib. Wake up and look at me.”
Rory remained still. Her right ear and the side of her face were scraped from having come into contact with the rocky soil. Kieran tried to get a look at her ear, which he thought was trickling blood, also. Sickened at the sight to the point of being almost physically ill, he nonetheless retained sense enough to make his way back to the horse.
His panicked gaze surveyed the landscape, seeing a couple of phantom riders in the distance against the black night but little else. He had time to continue on, now with the added terror of Rory’s injury. Just as he reached Liberator, an elaborate dagger with a curved, beveled blade sailed through the air and landed between him and the horse. Although startled by the weapon, Kieran appeared outwardly calm as several Saracen riders emerged like vengeful wraiths from behind a rocky outcropping.
Kieran sized up the situation in an instant. He was at an extreme disadvantage with Rory in his arms and his broadsword on his saddle. He further knew that they were in a good deal of trouble; he was an experienced warrior. He knew that all the posturing in the world would not get him out of this situation. Had it only been him, he would not have known any fear. But with Rory injured and vulnerable, he fought down the panic that threatened. Eyes on the enemy, he spoke to the horse.
“Courir à la maison,” he hissed. “Hâte!”
Liberator snorted, reared up, and bolted off. Even if he and Rory were about to be captured, he didn’t want the horse or the contents of his saddlebags, to fall into enemy hands. Liberator was smart; he knew the way back to Richard’s camp. It was only a few miles away. Kieran could only pray that Richard found the horse and grew nosy enough to dig into the saddlebags. He didn’t even care if the man sent out a search party. All he wanted was for the king to find the Muslim gift of peace that was waiting for him buried in the weathered leather.
“I do not have a weapon,” Kieran announced in a steady, booming voice. “My lady is injured. I ask for your mercy.”
One man broke off from the rest and pursued Liberator as the horse raced off into the night. The other riders, eight in all, lingered in the darkness in a semi-circle around Kieran and Rory, like vultures waiting for the kill. Kieran stood there, clutching Rory against his chest, waiting for someone to make a move. Knowing the Saracens as he did, he knew that if they were going to kill him, they would have done it right away and was puzzled with the apparent hesitance. It put him more on his guard. Beneath his heavy armor, he was beginning to sweat. Having Rory in his arms changed everything dramatically.
A horse finally separated from the group and moved towards him. Kieran had daggers on his body but he couldn’t get to them with Rory in his arms. And he couldn’t move her behind him to protect her, so he stood his ground with Rory clutched against his chest like a shield. He showed no outward fear as the horse and rider came upon him, but sweat was running in rivers down his neck.
The man braced a hand against his thigh and leaned down. His face was wrapped in a scarf of many colors that formed a turban around his head and neck. He was dressed in fairly luxurious robes made from linen more than likely imported from Egypt, as that was a major fabric port, and the fantastic scimitar sword hung off his saddle. It was a deadly, arched weapon that had been the scourge of the Christian armies. The only things visible on the man’s face were his dark eyes, glittering back at Kieran in the weak moonlight.
“Que faites-vous hors ici, Hage?” the man asked with quiet irony.
Kieran was startled by not only the question, but by the man apparently knowing his name. He struggled to keep his calm.
“Do I know you?” he asked steadily.
The man paused, just long enough to feed Kieran’s unrest, before unwinding the scarf, partially exposing his rugged features.
“Do you know this face, my friend?” he asked quietly.
Kieran’s eyes widened. “Yusef?”
Yusef Ibn Ahmed Ibn ad-Din smiled, shaking his head as he did so. “You did not answer my question. What are you doing so far from Richard’s camp?”
Kieran puffed out his cheeks, feeling an indistinct measure of relief roll through his body. “I was returning to camp when you and your men found me,” he explained. “Why did you chase me?”
Yusef shrugged. “Because you are a Christian knight, alone. That is reason enough,” he said. “You know better than to travel alone out in this land. But I did not know it was you until we drew close.”
“So what do you intend to do now that you know it is me?” Kieran looked down at Rory in his arms and the tendrils of panic he had been struggling to stave off began to grab at him. “My… my wife was badly hurt when my charger fell. I must return her to camp immediately.”
Yusef swung himself off his elaborately decorated horse, peering closely at Rory. Kieran wasn’t a physic. He had no real knowledge of healing other than battlefield wounds. That wasn’t really healing, anyway; it was either stemming a blood flow, cramming intestines back into a sliced belly, or tying off a severed limb. When Yusef lifted Rory’s eyelids and inspected the blood flowing out of her right ear, Kieran let him. Yusef was one of the very few Saracens he trusted.
The man was one of Salah-ad Din’s cousins, a servant of the great Saracen general El-Hajidd, one of the men who wanted peace between the Muslims and Christians. He had been at the head of the peace delegation from El-Hajidd that had presented Kieran and the other English knights with the Crown of Thorns reputed to have belonged to Jesus Christ, an offering demonstrating their willingness to cease fighting. So Kieran and Yusef knew and trusted each other, as much as enemies could.
After a careful examination, Yusef looked up at Kieran. “This is your wife?”
Kieran’s gaze was steady. “Aye.”
“You brought her with you from England?”
Kieran wasn’t sure how to answer him. “My lady and I will not be separated.” It was the truth.
Yusef grunted, looking at Rory one last time, noting the chestnut hair and exquisite features. She was quite lovely. “It was foolish, Hage.”
“I had no choice.”
Yusef thought on that a moment before finally waving his hand at Kieran. “Your camp is too far away,” he said. “She needs help immediately. Come, let us return to Nahariya. I know a man there who can help.”
Kieran watched him as he mounted his fine-featured Arabian horse. “But my charger is more than likely halfway back to Richard’s camp by now,” he said. “I do not have a mount.”
Yusef shouted over his shoulder, speaking quickly in Arabic. One of his men dismounted and brought his horse over to Kieran. Yusef gestured to the animal.
“Ride,” Yusef told him. “We return to Nahariya.”
Kieran wasn’t thrilled with returning to the city he was trying so hard to escape. “That may not be wise,” he said, not wanting to appear ungrateful. “A man is trying to kill me and will make an attempt tonight in Nahariya. I was attempting to get clear of the city.”
Yusef shook his head, barking orders to his men in Arabic. The men suddenly began to flee, heading northwest at breakneck speed.
“Mount the horse,” he ordered again. “We will protect you from assassins.”
Kieran wanted to protest but he didn’t have much of a choice. It was more important to get Rory to a physic. Even as he mounted the horse, he reminded himself repeatedly that Fate had returned them to his time for a reason. It was, however, increasingly unclear what that reason was. As they raced across the starlit desert towards the distant glowing town of Nahariya, he prayed very hard for two things: that Simon would not find him and be given a second chance to murder him, and that Rory would be all right.
But the situation was already changed. This time, as he entered the outskirts of the town, he had bodyguards, something he’d not had the first time Simon had tried to kill him. Even as he found himself entering the heart of the city, he realized that he was not particularly fearful. Even if Simon and his cutthroats saw him, they wouldn’t dare make a move with the host of Saracen soldiers surrounding him.
Turning a corner on a dusty, deserted alley, they ended up in front of a ramshackle and leaning structure. Kieran dismounted with Rory in his arms, still unconscious. He kissed her forehead, more concern than he had ever known consuming him as he approached the shack that Yusef was indicating. He didn’t notice the door of the hut until they were upon it and a carving of a flaming candle came into view. As realization dawned, it was as if an unseen fist slammed into his chest. Kieran suddenly couldn’t breathe. He must have swayed because Yusef reached out to steady him, encouraging him to move forward. But, for a moment, Kieran couldn’t seem to move.
There before him was the door of the alchemist who had put him into stasis after Simon’s murder attempt, a stasis that froze his bodily functions until Rory, eight hundred years later, dug him up and awoke him with a kiss. It was the very same man and the fact that he found himself back at the man’s door was more than odd. It was frighteningly coincidental and he resisted the urge to run. There was a sickening sense of déjà vu.
History was repeating itself in a slightly different fashion.