The Codex Lacrimae, Part 1: The Mariner's Daughter & Doomed Knight

By A.J. Carlisle

AN ANCIENT EVIL RETURNS. THE HUNTSMEN OF MUSPELHEIM WANT THE CODEX LACRIMAE, SO THEY’VE SET A TRAP IN 12TH CENTURY CRUSADER LANDS TO GET IT!

Believed lost for half a millennium, the Codex Lacrimae reappears when an old scholar brings the Dark Book to the Hospitaller castle of the Krak des Chevaliers. Unwittingly, that action leads th

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mimir's Ink
• Release date: Sep 19, 2017
• ISBN: 9780692949214

A.J. Carlisle

A. J. Carlisle holds a Ph.D. in medieval European history, with varied interests that include the Crusades of 1096-1291, theology and philosophy of the Middle Ages, and the Mediterranean Worlds of Late Antiquity. Inspired since childhood by the works of J.R.R. Tolkien & C.S. Lewis, Carlisle has spent the last 25 years working on his 9-book "The Artifacts of Destiny" series, of which "The Codex Lacrimae, Parts 1-3" comprise the first book. His hope is to "reboot and universalize" the epic fantasy genre by bringing to a global audience a unique blend of Norse mythology, Arthurian legends, international folklores & heroes (and villains) drawn from all parts of the medieval world! Carlisle lives in the United States with his wife and children.

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Book Cover, The Codex Lacrimae, Part 1The Codex Lacrimae, Part 1

Originally published © 2012 by A.J. Carlisle

Second Edition, Revised & with Illustrations,

© 2018 by A. J. Carlisle

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Pinder Lane and Garon-Brooke Associates, Ltd., 159 W. 53rd St., New York, NY 10019

Credits:

Front & Back Cover, and Spine Design

cakamura_san

https://99designs.com/profiles/cakamura/services

Original concepts by Adriana, Seth, Sophia, & A. J. Carlisle;

2018 Interior Redesign, text, & formatting by

Marraii Design / Natasa Marovic

http://www.marraii.com

Interior ePub & POD Design by A.J. Carlisle & Marraii Design/Natasa Marovic

Author Picture:

Monty Nuss Photography http://www.montynuss.com

Interior Artwork (Map & 12 Plates): Copyright 2017 by A.J. Carlisle

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Book Layout © 2018 BookDesignTemplates.com and Marraii Design

The Codex Lacrimae, Part 1: The Mariner’s Daughter & Doomed Knight / A.J. Carlisle

— 2nd Edition, Revised, with illustrations by the author.

Print ISBN: 978-0-692-94920-7

eISBN: 978-0-692-94921-4

IngramSpark

For Cookie Monster, Elmo, and Snuffy

Love, The Count

Let Mimir have his Norns and flaming lake—when waking up daily to my family, I find all the love, faith, and inspiration I need. Thank you for the magic and happiness of our lives.

With love, and the hope that you enjoy the adventures with Ríg and Clarinda through the Nine Worlds!

And with sincere gratitude to Bob Thixton,

for believing

The Codex Lacrimae Map

Contents

A Fortress Besieged

i. The Arrival of Ibn-Khaldun

ii. A Quarry Run to Ground

iii. An Aspect of Fate

iv. The Words of Urd

v. A Market Day, Interrupted

vi. At the Tavern of the Wayfarer

vii. The Labyrinth and the Ravens

viii. A Knight in the Scriptorium

ix. The Flyting at Caesarea

x. Sisters in Grief and the Fishermen of Caesarea

xi. A Doom Delivered

xii. The Screaming Pillars of Raj al-Jared

xiii. A Grand Master Makes His Move

xiv. A Mother’s Counsel

xv. Entangling Alliances

xvi. Three Mornings’ Journey and a Hoplitarch Undone

First Morning: The Return of the Norns

Second Morning: A Hike in the Homs Gap

Third Morning: The Sultan’s Camp

xvii. Assassins at the Gate

xviii. The Poisoning of Hamzah al-Adil

xix. Through a Mirror, Darkly

The Roots of Yggdrassil

i. The Forest of Alfheim

ii. Of Norns, Brisingamen, and a Dark Elf

iii. Fossegrim and Strömkarlen

iv. The Citadel of Hel

v. A Walk in Hela’s Halls

vi. The Wastes of Niflheim

vii. The Grottoes of Mimir’s Well

viii. Reunion in Niflheim

ix. The Fenrir-Baude

x. The Descent to Nidafjöll

INDEX OF CHARACTERS, TALISMANS, CREATURES, & PLACES

Clarinda Trevisan’s Family & Other Venetians

Servius Aurelius Santini’s Family & Other Relations

Khajen ibn-Khaldun’s Family & Relations (& House of Saladin)

Jacob David-son’s Family & Relations (Byzantium)

Stratioticus Family & Other Byzantines

Hospitallers et al in Krak des Chevalies & Holy Land

Nine Worlds of Norse Mythology

Other Locales, Characters, & Talismans

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

B O O K   O N E

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A Fortress Besieged

i. The Arrival of Ibn-Khaldun

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 aba from 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.

Illustration 1

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.

The thing in the saddlebags had appeared in his dreams from the beginning of his journey. The nightmares it caused made the formerly staid Muslim scholar more nervous than his custom, and that angered him, especially when he approached the familiar fortress whose scriptorium he’d managed for forty years. This close to home, he refused to stand nearer to the object than absolutely necessary.

Ibn-Khaldun murmured a word of encouragement to the camel and began the final leg of his flight from the East.

Something blurred near the terebinth trees. The old man drew his scimitar with surprising alacrity, considering his aches, age, and exhaustion.

The instinctive reaction saved his life. His blade clanged into another, parrying the weapon to the side. The attacker’s momentum carried him forward, and he stumbled slightly before he regained balance and brought his sword to a defensive position.

Ibn-Khaldun raised an eyebrow. The slightly curved, double-edged saif blade was almost as long as his attacker was high. He faced a boy of ten or eleven, who struggled to maintain his balance even as he hefted the blade for another swing.

Ibn-Khaldun lowered his sword and spoke softly in Arabic. Here, here, Child. Easy. I’m an old man and alone. You’ve nothing to fear from me.

"Ay-iah!" the boy shouted as he swung, his blade parried easily again by Ibn-Khaldun.

If the old man weren’t so tired, he could’ve laughed at the situation. To have escaped death for six months, only to be confronted by an armed whelp here at sanctuary!

Another boy sprinted into the area, straight into the still-screaming attacker’s midsection.

The scholar’s rescuer was dark-haired, athletic, and a hand-span taller than the first youth. Both boys crashed into the shrubbery. The momentum of the newcomer’s tackle threw the first boy’s arms and legs akimbo as the saif flew from his grasp.

Ibn-Khaldun lowered his blade while his young savior straddled his fallen opponent’s shoulders and delivered two quick slaps across the face. Then the rescuer leapt up and yanked the child upright by bunching a fist into the linen cloth over his chest.

He shoved the attacker at Ibn-Khaldun.

Apologize! the dark-haired teenager yelled at the callow boy.

I’m sorry! the boy yelled with wide eyes and quivering lips. The other youth slapped the back of his head.

No, say it like you mean it!

"I’m sorry, Ancient One! Um … may you have many grandchildren who are better mannered than me! The child looked back at the older boy, as if seeking approval for his words. Get back to the camp, the newcomer ordered, and tell your father that we’ll have words. I’m absolutely through with you people."

The shaken boy, tears welling in his eyes, bowed again to Ibn-Khaldun and muttered another apology.

The other one shook his head in disgust. You’re an idiot. Run!

My father’s going to want his sword back! the boy said, then dashed out of sight through a copse of trees. The teen-aged rescuer retrieved the saif and inspected it as he returned to the old man.

Ibn-Khaldun frowned. Although he’d just been saved by the boy, the old man maintained his guard. The heat in the youth’s hazel eyes and the steadiness to his wiry sword arm belied his apparent twelve or thirteen years of life.

The adolescent’s appearance, athleticism, and natural handling of a sword reminded Ibn-Khaldun of Ríg, the most skillful and warrior-like of his apprentices back at the Krak.

The boy looked straight into Ibn-Khaldun’s eyes. The anger in his gaze seemed directed at something beyond this situation. "You don’t need to fear anything, ya Akh. I’m sorry, too—that anyone should have to start a morning like that isn’t right. He offered the sword hilt-first. You can keep it."

Ibn-Khaldun haltingly raised his free hand. No, no; I don’t need another blade. I’m grateful for your help.

I saw your parries, the boy said. You didn’t need anybody. Aqib’s lucky that you didn’t take his head off.

Ibn-Khaldun sheathed his sword, taking a moment to note the youth’s features—curly black hair, angular face, and thin lips compressed into a frown. The boy wore a simple linen tunic, oversized on his small frame, bound at the waist by a thick leather girdle from which a scabbard hung.

So, he’s not a brother? Ibn-Khaldun asked.

No, thank God. He’s the son of Ghannen, the caravan leader.

Caravan?

"Down in a wadi, beyond those trees. We arrived yesterday." The boy stopped talking at the sound of prolonged coughing from behind him. He turned and raised his voice.

"I’m over here, Ima! He paused. Mother! Over here!"

No one replied. The boy made a curt bow. "Again, I’m sorry he bothered you. Le’hitra’ot—I have to go. Fare well in your travels, and may the next stop be friendlier than this one."

The boy trotted a short distance through some clustered junipers to the trunk of a cypress and stopped to kneel beside a prone form.

Curious, Ibn-Khaldun approached, in spite of his need for haste.

The boy glanced at him, made a move to rise, then, apparently deciding the old man posed no threat, returned his attention to the woman lying on the grass. Ibn-Khaldun couldn’t see her features but noticed the quality of the cinnamon-brown mantle covering the upper part of her beige dress.

"Im, Im, wake up." The boy gently prodded the woman’s shoulder.

She stirred, reached a hand to the boy’s, and grasped it firmly. I’m awake, Jacob. Not so roughly. I’m awake. She coughed, but didn’t rise. "Is it late?

"We’re not alone, Ima." He nodded toward Ibn-Khaldun.

She rolled in his direction and frowned.

"Boker Tov, Ge’veret, Ibn-Khaldun greeted her with a slight bow, hoping to put her at ease by remaining in the Hebrew the boy spoke. Good morning. I’m sorry if some swordplay awakened you. He nodded toward the youth. Your son helped me. You’re well protected—a good thing in these parts."

It is, indeed, the woman replied, accepting her son’s hand as she rose to her feet.

A violent cough overtook her and she put her mouth in the crook of her robe until it subsided. She brushed her hands against her tunic and gave Ibn-Khaldun a searching look. "Boker Tov," she said, returning the morning greeting.

They introduced themselves and Ibn-Khaldun learned that the mother, Rebecca, and her son, Jacob, were on the final leg of an overland journey from Constantinople to Jerusalem. Ibn-Khaldun invited the boy and his mother to break their fast with him, and they accepted.

"Ya akh …, Master Khajen, Rebecca asked as they shared flat breads and fruits, might I ask: what is your intention?"

I go there, he replied simply, turning to face the crusader castle.

There? Jacob exclaimed with an incredulous shake of his head. "Many nazaros, Christians, are there—neither of our kind would be welcome. You’d do better to head for Jerusalem, Old One."

Jacob, how rude—you don’t speak to your elders like that! Apologize at once! The mother’s voice slapped the morning air, bringing color to his face. He glanced at her and mumbled an apology to Ibn-Khaldun.

The old man laughed. No, no—such truth in observation merits comment. ‘Believe what you see, and lay aside what you hear,’ eh, Young One? He’s right, he’s right—it’s a strange thing for a Muslim to go willingly to a Christian fortress, isn’t it?

Jacob, please sit down quietly and eat. Don’t begrudge Master Khajen’s generosity of food and company for the sake of a few more minutes of saber play.

"It’s not ‘play,’ Ima, Jacob said with irritation, and the blade is heavier than it looks."

He collapsed cross-legged beside the adults, and scooped an assortment of dried apricots and almonds from some unwrapped palm leaves. And I need to practice if the sword is to become second nature. Jacob’s eyes wandered to the Krak, then settled on Ibn-Khaldun as he ate. Forgive me, Master, but I still can’t believe you want to go there. Look at that place! It’s huge, and the Christians kill without looking …

…while we Muslims look with zeal as we are killing? Ibn-Khaldun finished.

The old man paused before taking a bite of his bread. You’re too angry, young man, and, perhaps, too strong-worded to your mother. My people have a saying: ‘Arrogance is a weed that grows mostly on a dunghill.’

Arrogant? Jacob exclaimed, turning the heat of his gaze at the Crusader castle onto Ibn-Khaldun. I’m anything but arrogant. I just want to protect us.

Perhaps, perhaps; if I mistake your anger for something else, forgive me, Ibn-Khaldun said.

Rebecca started to say something, but a coughing fit again consumed her.

"S’leexa, Ibn-Khaldun pardoned himself, but that cough doesn’t sound good. Have you had it long?"

Rebecca glanced at her son who remained focused on his food.

Yes, for some months, she replied, shaking her head as adults do when they don’t want something discussed before children.

Ah, Ibn-Khaldun said, taking the hint. I see … He chewed an almond, and then nodded to the two heavily laden camels tethered in the grove. I see you’ve traveled widely. I assume you’ve crossed the Great Sea more than once?

The sea, yes, but mostly moving with the caravans along coastal routes. My husband tolerated ships, but he preferred land under his feet. As do I.

He’s not with you?

No. We’ve not heard from him in five years, not since the Battle of Mecina. She nodded toward Jacob. We couldn’t stay in Constantinople. The Genoese merchant who rented our stall tried to take advantage of me. I resisted, and … we fled to escape him.

‘Take advantage,’ Jacob snorted. He reached for another handful of dried fruit and nuts. When I’m skilled enough with the sword, I’ll return to our home on the Severan Way, Ima. I’ll return, and I’ll confront Signore Boccanegra at the noon hour in front of The Wayfarer where the docks are busiest, and then, in front of the crowds, I’ll … I’ll force everyone finally to see the truth about him. He ducked his head and finished in a whisper, They’ll learn the truth right before I stab him through his black heart.

His mother regarded him. No, you won’t Jacob. We are done with the Genoese Quarter. Where you’ll return instead is to my mother’s house in Jerusalem. She raised his chin with a finger and looked into his eyes. That’s where your father will go, if he’s able.

He’s dead, Mother. The Christians killed him in one of their senseless wars.

Long are the years that sometimes pass when a merchant is abroad, Ibn-Khaldun said. Do you know that he has for certain died?

He was at Mecina, Jacob replied. Who survived that massacre, except Christians? He wrenched a handful of grass from the verge and wiped his hands.

Ibn-Khaldun offered the boy his water skin. Your father might not be dead. He might very well be alive. I know some survivors of the Battle of Mecina who live in that very castle. My apprentice survived that battle—his name’s Ríg, and at the time he was little older than you are now. He paused. In fact, you look a bit like he did back then, if not shorter. Are you sure that you’re not partly Christian yourself?

I am Jacob ben-David, Jacob said, straightening as he named his father. My mother is Rebecca bat-Gurion. Then he snorted. But, Ríg? What kind of name is that? It’s not Arabic or Hebrew. If he’s a Christian, you just made my point: it’s no surprise that he survived a Crusader massacre.

You do know that it takes two sides to fight a battle, eh? Ibn-Khaldun said as a teacher might do with a stubborn student. That one of Saladin’s own brothers was besieging Mecina and killing pilgrims who tried to escape?

I’ve heard many versions, Jacob replied quietly. In none of them does my father survive, and in all accounts the Hooded Hospitaller, Santini, slaughters all who get in his way.

There was much death in that siege, true, Ibn-Khaldun said, but, I’ve also heard that Saladin retreated when it became obvious that staying wasn’t worth taking the castle. I saw the battleground, Jacob. There were many bodies—Christians and my people alike. Perhaps it wasn’t only Santini’s men doing the killing, eh? You do know that many pilgrims, merchants, and villagers escaped Mecina thanks to Santini’s efforts, don’t you?

The old man shrugged at the insoluble problem. War is war, and for human beings it seems as if killing is sometimes just as much a part of living, especially when religion is involved.

Human beings? Jacob cried. They weren’t human, those Christians at Mecina. He glared at the Krak as if the fire in his eyes could incinerate its walls. Servius Aurelius Santini wasn’t human, the boy continued heatedly. "Hundreds died at the castle because of his insufferable nazaro arrogance, and my father was just … his eyes brimmed, but he finished the sentence. My father was just making his way back from a business trip."

You’d seek vengeance, then? At your age? Ibn-Khaldun asked. Isn’t that prohibited in your religion?

If it’s against my own people, yes. If others, then, no. Jacob said softly, as if talking about religion relaxed him. "You seem to know our laws well, ya Akh, so perhaps you also know of this: ‘He who comes to slay you, slay him first.’ To do otherwise is suicide, and that I will not allow."

Ibn-Khaldun laughed. I see, I see. ‘If someone is coming to kill you, get up early and kill him first, eh?’ That’s a very assertive attitude, Jacob. Thankfully, I’ve seen it in action this morning, and I think it saved my life.

"I think you mock me, ya Akh. Our proverbs have another saying: ‘Rash words are like sword thrusts, but the tongue of the wise brings healing.’ I’ll let my sword do its work now, and try to think about your words. Jacob rose to his feet, bowed curtly at Ibn-Khaldun, and said to his mother. Ima, I’ll be at the other end of the grove. Practicing."

Ibn-Khaldun thoughtfully watched the youth stride away.

You talk too much like a rabbi, Rebecca said, "and Jacob very much wanted to become one someday. He trained for years with Rabbi Mordecai in the synagogue before … your way of speaking angers him because it reminds him of the mitzvah and of what’s been lost. I hope that he might still become one, but, tears filled her eyes, death has been with us much of late and he’s not himself. She watched the boy slashing at imaginary enemies and shook her head. He’d rather be angry than face some difficult truths."

Well, he’s young. Isn’t that their way? Ibn-Khaldun observed. There’s a boy in that castle I should like to introduce him to. The one I mentioned. He’s had bad experiences, too, yet he’s an apt pupil and good friend. Yes, I think that Jacob and my apprentice, Ríg, would …

The words faded as Ibn-Khaldun’s eyes narrowed and focused on a point in the distance, near the horizon, almost midway between Jacob’s shadow fencing and the fortress itself. He winced as he pushed himself to a standing position. Perhaps such conversations might take place sooner than I thought. We must all get to the Krak.

The woman shook her head. We’ll not be joining you, Old One. You heard my son. We’re going with the caravan south to Jerusalem.

Not unless you’d walk through an army, you’re not.

What?

Look, there. Do you see? Ibn-Khaldun rose to his feet and helped the woman up. It has the look of a sand storm, but have you ever seen a storm that low-lying and against such a calm air and blue, sunny sky? No, we must get inside.

Rebecca called Jacob. The boy stopped his fencing practice and ran back to join them.

We’ll also discuss that cough of yours when we’re inside, Ibn-Khaldun promised quietly as the boy neared. It’s not a good sign that you’ve had it so long.

You know medicinal arts? Rebecca whispered.

Enough, and, perhaps, more than enough. We’ll see.

Jacob halted a few steps away, looking warily at Ibn-Khaldun.

An army comes, Rebecca said. Look, there. We’ll take refuge in the fortress with this man. He says that a plea for sanctuary will be recognized.

"Absolutely not, Ima! They’re Christians," Jacob exclaimed.

As might be that army, Ibn-Khaldun said, nodding to the distant smudge on the horizon. At least the Christians in the castle I know. Besides, I follow the teachings of Muhammad, and there are others like me, as well as Hebrews within that fortress. It’s like a small city. Even Crusaders can’t live long in these parts without adopting many of the region’s customs. You and your caravan will all be welcome. Trust me.

The boy’s eyes flicked from the horizon to the castle and back to the horizon again. "Ima, we could … no. He lowered his eyes as if seeking an answer to the quandary from the ground itself. Oh, very well. He inhaled deeply. We’re again in your debt, and will accept your kind invitation."

Ibn-Khaldun’s eyebrows rose, pleasantly surprised. He nodded and moved to recover his camel.

Master, Jacob said, I’ll go tell Ghannen of the armies and return his sword. There are only twenty carts in the caravan, and the animals will be ready. They’ll be there by the time you and Ima reach the bottom of the mountain.

Very well, Ibn-Khaldun nodded, impressed by the boy’s efficiency.

Jacob gave his mother a questioning look. She nodded and made a shooing motion with her hand, and he ran off down the trail.

Ibn-Khaldun helped Rebecca mount her camel and tried to ignore the whispers in his mind that returned almost immediately upon his settling into his own linen-lined saddle. The words, spoken softly but with an almost overwhelming urgency, made him want to flip open the saddlebags behind him and take the thing out. If he just took it for himself, the voice told him, so many things could be made right. So many losses undone, so many years regained …

Jacob rejoined them sooner than expected and told the two adults that Ghannen had already begun to move the caravan and would meet them on the valley road. The trio set off down the hill.

Grateful for the company on this leg of his journey, Ibn-Khaldun reflected on the last time he’d been around other people: a month ago, with his own family of bedouin traders in the heart of the Nafud Desert, or Empty Quarter.

That stay had been special for Ibn-Khaldun because he’d been able to spend some time with his son, Thaqib, who was the second-in-command to Khalil (the sheikh who led the tribe). Khalil was a man of great charisma who married Ibn-Khaldun’s daughter, Fatima. His adult children and son-in-law led a very successful camel caravan, participating in an overland trade that reached far eastwards into Persia.

When he’d been with them, he’d fought an overwhelming temptation to speak with them—particularly Fatima—but he couldn’t risk endangering his family.

Indeed, how could he tell anyone, when he still didn’t know how he was going to relate the news about his strange package to Ríg? He’d momentarily wanted to share his mind with Fatima. She’d always been able to predict future events long before they happened—so long as all the facts were in front of her—and she also knew Ríg as a friend because of the many years she’d spent visiting the Krak. But, Fatima would have told him to give the saddlebag to her or Thaqib, and insisted that he let one of them complete the delivery so the scholar could rest with the bedouin.

His response then remained the same as now: No, I’ve got to finish this myself. Ríg’s just a boy. He’ll need some kind of guidance with this… thing.

So, he’d left them full of questions, saying only that he was urgently needed back at the Krak. Reluctantly, Fatima and Thaqib had let him go, taking some comfort in the fact that the citadel offered at least the consolation that Ibn-Khaldun’s other son—an adopted Christian named Marcus—still lived within its walls.

Getting the thing in the saddlebag to Rig was only half the battle. Solving its mystery would test his friendship with his best student, and the entire matter deeply troubled him. Even though a westerner, Ríg had become as much of a son to Ibn-Khaldun as either Marcus or Thaqib.

However, wherever the hunters came from, their menace was real. They’d made four attempts on the Muslim scholar’s life in their half-year chase, each of Ibn-Khaldun’s escapes narrower than the previous one. The latest assault in the city of Shuqrah had almost killed the old man. He’d badly injured his left knee when he’d fallen while tipping a fruit cart, but the effort had wrenched something in his side that hadn’t fully healed.

The trio closed on the caravan, bringing Ibn-Khaldun’s thoughts back to the present. The drivers of its rearmost carts hailed Jacob and Rebecca.

Let’s make haste and introduce me to this Ghannen, Ibn-Khaldun said. I’ve not journeyed seven hundred leagues to get caught at my front door!

Ibn-Khaldun and his companions joined the small caravan at the first switchback road leading up to the front gate, and for the first time in six months he didn’t look back over his shoulder.

The oversight meant that he missed seeing two figures watch his progress from the rocky promontory and grove of terebinth trees that he and his companions had departed only a brief while ago. Nor, of course, from his position on the slanting roadway could Ibn-Khaldun see the vast darkness of a larger, second army that followed a short distance behind the watchers.

ii. A Quarry Run to Ground

The two men rode great white Arabian stallions, and they restrained the wild-eyed, whinnying beasts from pursuing Ibn-Khaldun as the caravan made its way up switchback roads to the Krak des Chevaliers.

Whether alone or with those merchants, the old man will reach Santini, Morpeth, the larger of the two riders said. A member of that family line is in the castle. I can feel it now that we’re this close.

A man of fair complexion, Farbauti wore a full golden beard and long hair bound by leather strips that reached past his shoulders. Both men seemed unaffected by the heat, even though they wore similar black Hospitaller cloaks over tunics and breeches, with the bulks of their gigantic frames accented by chain-mail ringlets visible at collars and wrists.

"Ja, Farbauti. Finally, Morpeth agreed, leaning forward and peering at the fortress whose walls presented an intimidating sight. He was the younger of the two men, his face clean-shaven and his blond hair cropped short. Pathetic that we’re the ones who have to correct a mistake that never should’ve carried the Codex this far. It’s been a long time, even as we reckon such things, but now all is as it should be."

Do you truly feel that way, Morpeth? Santini’s awakening of the Codex Lacrimae will mean the beginning of the end game, and the chances of either of us ever holding it for our own have become slim to none.

Morpeth looked briefly at the other man, and then returned his gaze to the Krak des Chevaliers resting on the mountain, Hisn al-Akrad.

We weren’t ever meant to hold it, nor any other artifact, Farbauti, Morpeth said as he assessed the citadel defenses. That’s fine with me. I’ve no use for such things. We knew the rules and swore the Oath. I’m just pleased that Ibn-Khaldun’s performed as predicted. He adjusted a brace on his forearm and squinted at the castle. No, it’s enough for me to know that Saladin’s and Fafnir’s armies are converging here.

Let’s not get overconfident, Farbauti cautioned, warfare’s first casualty is predictability. Still, I think we’ve done all the preparation we can. He stretched. Whatever happens, we need to be efficient, Morpeth. There are matters that need tending in Svartalfheim and Nidaveller.

We don’t need to go over that ground again, Morpeth said, his tone insistent. I told you earlier, we’ll make the dwarves see the error of their ways, just as we’ll see to the return of the druids and witches.

I don’t like leaving such things to chance, Farbauti said. He inhaled deeply, adjusting himself on the horse. I fear that we’ve spent so much time on the Codex Lacrimae that events might outpace our plans.

Worry not, old friend, Morpeth said. I’ve been setting a snare for Santini, a back-up in case he eludes us after we awaken the Codex. The Sight foretells that he’ll reach the forest of the Dark Elves. I see him in a glade where a madman roams. We shall capture him there.

You’ve foreseen the Codex Wielder in a glade? In Svartalfheim? Suspicion marked Farbauti’s words. I’ve seen nothing of this in the fires.

It’s the Sight, Morpeth shrugged. Perhaps it shows you one thing and me another. Whatever the reason, it can’t hurt the Hunt to have a contingency. He frowned while his eyes turned inward. "Ja, it’s still the same, Farbauti. I’ve seen the vision five times. I’m getting sick of Santini’s pretty face. Does it help settle your mind if I tell you that I think the dwarf who will help us in our work is Dietrich the Mad?"

It might, but no one’s seen him for centuries. He grimaced. The same could be said of us. If he’s returned, we may leave Santini to him. Arch-Mage Dietrich certainly had no love for codex users. Very well done. We’re covered, then?

"Ja, as much as possible. But, there is …" Morpeth paused.

"There is was?"

The Sight. It showed me more. Besides Santini in the glade, and the appearance of Dietrich, I’ve had visions of … other places. Places that should no longer be accessible in the Nine Worlds.

Speak plainly, Morpeth, Farbauti said. "Tell me what you saw, and if necessary we’ll adjust the plan as we’ve done before.

It’s hard to speak plainly because it’s impossible. The realm doesn’t exist anymore.

"Was ist das?"

Annen Verden.

Farbauti recoiled as if his friend had slapped him. There’s no doubt?

It was the Otherworld. Worse, on a similar front, I fear that this hunt for the Codex might already have brought back the Nightmare Lord, Veröld Martröd.

Hah! You might as well say that Mogthrasir has risen from the dead. No, the Nightmare Lord disappeared when we lost the Codex Lacrimae.

You asked me to tell you of my visions. These are things that I’ve Seen.

Still. Annen Verden … Farbauti said. He returned his attention to the great castle. "What a place to hunt that would be. But, nein. No. Your visions must be a side effect of the quest for the codex. It makes sense. The Book of Tears was the last and most powerful to be bound, and Taliesin used it to trap Veröld Martröd in Annen Verden before all of the artifacts were lost.

Silence fell for a long moment. Then, he said, We can’t change plans now. Let’s assume those dreams come from the stirring of the Codex Lacrimae. It’s logical that those with Sight would see visions of its last moments in the Nine Worlds. Until we see evidence of Veröld Martröd’s return, we can’t hunt him. He’s the Lord of Nightmare and he’d have us jumping at every shadow—we’ll wait to see if he reveals himself. We’re forewarned, though, thanks to your visions, old friend.

Farbauti gazed southward, becoming reflective. He stared for a long while at the rising dust cloud that canvassed almost the entire horizon.

An army marched within the approaching maelstrom, its forces instigated by his and Morpeth’s efforts. During negotiations with the commanders of the two armies, they’d let Ibn-Khaldun continue to race toward the Krak, running the Sufi mystic to ground when the crusader castle would be surrounded by a two-pronged siege of their design.

All Ibn-Khaldun had to do now was deliver the Codex Lacrimae to the youngest member of the Santini family, and then the Huntsmen could complete the quest they’d begun so long ago.

A sudden stillness about the other man made Farbauti glance at Morpeth.

Morpeth?

The armored warrior motioned Farbauti to silence. Morpeth had continued to watch Ibn-Khaldun when Farbauti fell silent, but he also checked the Krak for any defensive capabilities he might have overlooked on his initial survey. Something under the southwest tower caught his eye.

"Farbauti, look to that tower. The defensive slots. What do you see? I mean, See?"

His companion moved his horse closer to Morpeth’s, leaned forward, and peered at the indicated tower.

Modgud’s Grin! Farbauti cursed. What are they doing here? Odin cannot know. We’ve been too careful! As he spoke, two bits of darkness detached themselves from the shadows under the ramparts and rose high into the clear blue morning sky.

It’s the Codex Lacrimae, Farbauti. Of course, he’s aware of it. Santini must be there—the ravens wouldn’t be here otherwise! They’re merely curious to get a look at him. The Codex is not awake. It’s not. We would know!

The two flying shadows resolved themselves into gigantic black ravens and streaked their way. With one hand, Morpeth reached for the bow slung on his shoulder while the other fingered the feathered fletching of one of the arrows in the quiver hanging from his saddle.

Morpeth, no—those ravens are Hugin and Munin! Farbauti raised his hand to Morpeth’s forearm, attempting to stay the man’s bowshot.

"Ja, but they are far from Odin’s high seat of Hlidskjalf, Farbauti. Now, leave me be!" Morpeth wrenched his aiming arm from his partner’s grasp and fired.

The great birds were no longer there, however, and Morpeth’s arrow arced with deadly gracefulness through the empty sky.

What was that, Farbauti? Morpeth hissed. You know how difficult it is to even catch sight of them, let alone get an opportunity to strike!

Enough, Morpeth. This is the Hunt, and we’re near the end of it. Farbauti tugged on the reins of his horse, his anger apparent. I’ve no bow. A Huntsman might be able to down the first of Odin’s ravens, but even Mogthrasir’s Speed wouldn’t get you a chance at the second.

Fimbulvetr’s coming, Farbauti, Morpeth warned, referring to a three-year long snow-filled winter. It might be to our benefit if even one of the All-Father’s ‘flying eyes’ was blinded.

Despite Morpeth’s heated words, he knew Farbauti’s cool assessment to be correct. He’d acted in haste.

It’ll come, but let’s stave off Odin’s anger a bit longer, eh? Farbauti yanked on the rein and faced Saladin’s approaching army. Come. Let’s return to these wretched people and begin the end of this. With his damnable birds alerting Odin, we’ve even less time than we thought. All we need is Thor or Heimdall catching wind of this. We’ve plans to make for the assault, and Fafnir has to be notified. Farbauti nodded toward the fortress. Ibn-Khaldun will wait, as will Santini.

Eyes smoldering, Morpeth waited until the white-garbed man that was Ibn-Khaldun and his miserable little caravan passed through