The Saracen: Land of the Infidel Part 117

_It was my stupidity that opened the door to him._

He had caught only a glimpse of the enemy. All in black from head to foot, eyes s.h.i.+ning through oval holes in his mask. Truly like a devil.

The stalker had deliberately doused the light, which must mean he could find his victims in the dark.

Simon's body went from hot to cold. While he stood here helplessly, the men with him could be dying. He tried to force himself to think, but his mind was motionless as a stone.

All around Simon was confusion. He heard Grigor, the guard who had staggered into the room just before the light went out, moaning with pain. He heard men stumbling about. They kept b.u.mping into him. He lowered his scimitar to avoid stabbing someone by accident.

A crash made Simon jump. That was the lantern, smashed probably, by the man in black, so that no one could relight it.

Next he would start killing them, one by one.

_G.o.d, if only I had some light. Just a little._

The odors of the precious spices the Monaldeschi stored in this pantry pervaded the air--saffron, cardamom, pepper, cloves, ginger, nutmeg, cinnamon. When Simon had first entered the spice pantry a short time ago it had seemed a pleasant enough smell. Now it was making him sick.

Was there still a lighted candle in the cellar outside?

"The door!" he shouted. "Get the door open." Friar Mathieu repeated his command in the Armenian tongue.

He heard a sc.r.a.ping, as of someone pulling on the heavy bolt that held the door shut. Then a thud and a choking cry of pain. Then a sound like a heavy sack being dropped.

Simon groaned inwardly. He could picture what had happened. Now the door was held shut, not just by a bolt, but by a dead body.

He felt ice cold, but sweat trickled under his mail. The blackness was thick, a blanket, smothering him. The smells of the spices were cloying, dizzying. His stomach felt queasy.

"Flint and tinder!" Simon shouted, and Friar Mathieu repeated his words for the Armenians and Tartars. Everything he said had to be translated.

The delay was maddening.

And, Simon realized, anyone who tried to strike a light would make himself the enemy's next target.

G.o.d's blood, even by answering Friar Mathieu the Tartars would give away their location to the stalker. The man in black must be able to find his victims by listening for them.

So, if sound would make them visible, then the only way to thwart this demon would be by silence. And even now men were starting to answer Simon's call for flint.

"Silence!" he shouted. His voice sounded shrill in his ears, like a frightened boy's.

For a moment there was no sound in the blackness.

"He finds us by the sounds we make," Simon said. "Everyone remain still, and we will hear him when he moves."

As Friar Mathieu translated, Simon realized that either he or Friar Mathieu could be the next victim. The stalker would want to kill the Franciscan so Simon could not communicate with the others.

And one Armenian was badly hurt, one was probably dead outside and one dead by the door. Left able to fight were only Simon, the Tartars, and one Armenian guard. They had swords and bows, but the bows would just be enc.u.mbrances in this total blackness.

In minutes the amba.s.sadors could be dead. Simon felt terrified, drowning in darkness, almost overcome with helplessness.

_I must make him come to me._

The thought frightened Simon even more. He did not know whether he would have the courage to act on it.

What weapons did the stalker have? In the glimpse Simon had of him before he put the candle out, the man in black had seemed to be empty-handed. His weapons must be small ones that could kill, but might not be quite so dangerous to a man in mail.

"Everyone remain still," Simon said loudly. "You will hear me moving steadily about. If you hear someone else as well, it is the enemy."

He racked his brain to remember the size and shape of the room. Holding his sword low, he put his hand up before his face and forced himself to take one step, then another. An attack might come from any direction.

The trembling of his hands and knees made his mail jingle faintly.

The mailed glove dangling from his wrist rattled as his bare hand encountered a man's face. The man gasped and pulled away.

"C'est moi," said Simon, just to let the man hear his voice, knowing it did not matter what language he spoke. He was not afraid of calling attention to himself. He wanted the stalker to come for him. And he wanted those on his side to know where he was so they would not attack him by mistake.

The face he felt was hot, sweaty, with a bushy mustache--one of the Armenians. The killer had been masked. Simon patted the man on the shoulder and moved on. He doubted that he could find the man in black this way. If the stalker were as skilled at moving about in the dark as he seemed to be, he could easily evade Simon.

The Tartars seemed to have understood the peril they were in; they had been silent now for a long time.

The thought struck him like ice between his shoulder blades: What if the killer had already gotten to them, and they were silent because they were dead? He wanted to call out to them, or to Friar Mathieu, to be sure they were all right. He suppressed the urge and reached out for another face.

This time he felt a beard. It was long and full. Friar Mathieu.

"C'est moi," Simon said again, and a hand reached up and squeezed his rea.s.suringly.

The next face was hard, bony. There was a mustache that his fingers followed long below the mouth. The beard was thin, sprouting from the chin only. One of the Tartars. Simon felt the face move under his touch.

Thank G.o.d, the man was alive.

He reached beyond the Tartar and felt a shoulder. This must be the other Tartar. But no--the shoulder was high, as high as the Tartar's head.

Just as he was about to jump back he felt something brush over his hair.

A cord was around his neck.

It jerked tight with such force that Simon's breath was instantly cut off. Pain circled his neck like a band of fire.

His scream forced its way through his throat as a drawn-out grunt as the cord tightened still more. He could feel the blood in his head pressing out against his temples and eyeb.a.l.l.s. He felt as if nails were being driven into his head.

He had his scimitar. He raised it and drove it back over his right shoulder. It went through empty air. The killer had felt it coming and ducked out of the way. But for a moment the cord cutting into Simon's throat let up just a bit.

He heard voices all around him. The others knew what was happening. They stumbled about, but they could not see to reach him. He felt himself being dragged backward, pulled away from his comrades. The cord was digging into his windpipe harder and harder. In a moment his mind would go black. He would not even know when he died. He fought his terror, knowing that if he yielded to it, he would surely die.

He _would_ live. He _would_ see Sophia again.

He tried to lean forward, to bend his knees, to find some purchase on the stone for his iron-shod feet. Still, the attacker pulled him. Simon felt he had only a child's strength compared to the man in black.

Dizzily Simon remembered tug-of-war games when he had been a page at the royal palace.

_When one side lets go, everyone on the other side falls down._