The Necromancer's Grimoire Read online

  In two steps she had it, opened it to the third page and looked at the drawing in the wide margin.

  “It is said you would protect me and mine,” she said aloud, accusing it.

  A man’s cry was her answer. She looked up to see Montrose jerking his sword out of his enemy’s belly. As the last janissary fell, Montrose put his other hand against the wall and leaned there, gasping. His eyes searched her out. She saw his relief that she was safe before he took a heavy step toward William and Assad. She looked back at her book. “You failed,” she said, snapping the covers together.

  She lifted her skirts and joined Montrose and William, who was helping the apprentice to his feet. “The book did not protect us, as promised,” she said. Somehow she felt responsible for that failure, as though she had not said the right words, or performed the proper ritual.

  Montrose turned to look hard at her. He was still breathless, “Nadira. Count…count… the bodies.” He wiped his mouth, panting.

  She swept the room. “There are five dead, my lord.”

  “How many,” he inhaled, “did you kill?”

  She paused, “What?”

  “I got one,” William whispered.

  “I killed four. Four.” Montrose paused. His breathing steadied as he looked around the library at the bodies of the sultan’s guards. “I fought and killed four of the sultan’s janissaries.” He turned his head and frowned at her. “Perhaps I should be flattered that this does not surprise you in the least. I assure you it is as much a miracle as if that book had sent a bolt of lightning to their chests.” He held his long sword out so she could see that it no longer shone. She grimaced at the dripping blade.

  He shook his head. He had lost the turban at some time during the battle, and his dark hair hung down the sides of his face, soaked in sweat and blood. He looked at her again. “The bolts? We were never more than five paces from the bowmen. I should have been on my back with black bolts through my heart.” He used his free hand to illustrate, making violent motions as though he would yank the protruding fletches from his chest. His eyes challenged her to argue with him. “These men were the finest swordsmen I have ever battled. I stand amazed, even if you do not.”

  “Ah…” she said.

  “If this book did not defend us, what did?” he pounded his chest. “I should not be standing here breathing. Nor you. Nor William here, who took down a trained swordsman with an eating knife.” His eyes were fierce.

  Assad said nothing, but his face told all. He did not understand the English, but understood the situation. William stood beside him, a hand on the apprentice’s arm.

  Montrose turned to him. “And you. What are we to do with you?” He lifted the bloody sword again.

  “No.” William stopped him. “He is no longer the enemy.”

  They all looked at Nadira. She asked the Grimoire. She lifted her eyes to Assad’s as she heard its answer. “Come here,” she said in Arabic. He took a step and William released his arm. She held the book in two hands and extended her arms. “Take it,” she said.

  “What?” Montrose stepped between them. “What are you doing?”

  “Trust me, my lord.” She nodded to Assad who was visibly frightened. “Take it.” The apprentice obeyed, but when his hands touched the book, he drew back, hands in the air before him, palms out. He looked at Nadira as if she were not a small woman in a blood-soaked gown, but something else entirely. It was obvious he had trouble believing what had just happened.

  “What is going on?” Montrose’s voice was dangerous. “Shall I kill him?” He lifted the point of his blade and pushed it against Assad’s neck, making the apprentice take another step back. Assad made no move to defend himself.

  “No,” Nadira said. “We are no longer in danger from him.”

  “What?” asked William. “Let me touch the book,” he reached for it. “I would know what makes his eyes so large. Look at him.”

  She allowed William to touch it. His eyes also widened in wonder. The golden specks twinkled. “Ohhhh…” he breathed out a long sigh, “Let me hold it,” he whispered. She gave it to him and was not surprised that instead of opening it, he pressed it against his chest with both arms as one would embrace a lover. In a soft airy voice he said, “You will not be giving this book to Corbett.”

  Montrose lowered the sword. “Bloody hell, Nadira. Have you just made William your apprentice?”

  She nodded as she looked around the blood-soaked room. “Bloody hell, indeed, my lord.”

  He bent down and retrieved Assad’s linen and used it to wipe his blade clean. As he worked, he asked her softly, “Are there more men coming?”

  She closed her eyes. “Oh yes. Many men. And the necromancer, too. They pound the streets now, running. They have emptied the barracks. All converge on this house.”

  She opened her eyes to see his own, bright blue now that his face had gone completely white. He said, “You say, ‘emptied the barracks’? Emptied them?” He sheathed the long blade, “I will need some water first.”

  Chapter Eleven

  He got his water. On their way out of the necromancer’s house, he lifted a heavy water jar and tipped it over his head, before pouring the remainder of the contents into his mouth. Nadira and William took a drink from a smaller pitcher and Assad opened a cabinet and retrieved a parcel before they set out through the garden into the night. There was no sign of any of the servants. Assad touched Nadira’s arm before he disappeared into the shadows of the garden. He would go back to Persia; his apprenticeship was completed with this one final lesson.

  The sound of an army of men marching through the streets carried to them in the night air. Lights were lit in the houses around them and curious citizens stood in their doorways. The less curious snapped their shutters and screens tight against the sound. Nadira saw people standing on their roofs and leaning out the windows of the second and third floors.

  She turned to Montrose “The harbor is this way.”

  “I don’t know that we want to go to the harbor,” Montrose said, “It is heavily defended and the men there well organized. We would not get through the gates. We can hide in the cistern for now. I have hidden there before.” Montrose took Nadira’s hand. “We go down.”

  “Do you know where the entrances are?” She asked him as he pulled her along.

  “I do. They are clearly marked if you know what to look for. They will soon be blocked if there is a search. We must hurry.”

  William asked, “If the entrances will soon be blocked…how will we get out again?”

  Montrose answered, “Trust me; we need hide only until the storm has passed.”

  The entrance was an opening in the ground between two large blocks of stone overgrown with brush. In the dark they could make out moonlit reflections on the white stone that fluttered from the shadows of the tall trees that flanked it. They ducked into the shadows of those trees as they waited to see if they had been seen. The alarm raised at the necromancer’s house had drawn a group of men to the corner and one of them had a torch. It was clear that many men were headed downhill to the harbor. Others would be stationed at the gates, and even more milled about the street. They crept along the trees and disappeared through the cleft in the rock and to the dark stone stairs.

  “We have no light,” she reminded them softly.

  “Put your hand against the wall and be careful with your feet. Darkness is your friend, not your enemy.”

  William whispered. “I cannot put my hand against the wall.” He held the book tightly to his chest.

  Nadira took his elbow and moved him in front of her. “Follow the baron,” she whispered. “I will guide you down. If you stumble he will stop your fall.” She pressed him so his shoulder scraped the stones of the wall as he descended. “Go slowly.”

  “How far?” He asked.

  “Until your feet get wet,” Montrose answered.

  They slid their hands over the rough stone and shuffled their feet in ankle-deep water to find fo
oting in the total darkness.

  “It’s not deep here,” Montrose said, and his voice echoed through an immense invisible space, “But stay close to the wall just the same. The water deepens in the center.”

  They followed the sounds of his movements to a stone ledge or a block waist height which promised to be a dry space. Montrose lifted Nadira up and felt around for William. She felt him being set beside her, then listened as Montrose splashed a bit before coming to rest on her other side. Even those slight sounds of flesh on stone echoed and were magnified. The dying echoes blended with the sound of dripping. Their breathing was too loud.

  “Will they see us if they bring lights?” she whispered.

  “We are behind a pillar, but yes. If you see lights coming down the stairs we must move, but we will see and hear them long before they become a threat.”

  They stilled their breaths and listened.

  She touched William, bent to him and breathed softy, “You have the Grimoire safe?”

  Instead of answering he smoothed his hand across her body until he found hers. He lifted her hand and placed it gently on the book he held in his arms.

  She leaned the other way, feeling for Montrose. He was breathing in a way she had heard before, a tentative inhale and then a slow exhale that stumbled and caught in his throat. She moved her hands over his body, light as a feather, feeling him for a wound. He was damp with the blood of his enemies and the water he had poured over his head.

  The steel rings sewn into his brigandine caught at her fingers and resisted exploration. She moved her hand to his arm and felt the thick muscle to his shoulder and then to where the leather of his brigandine stopped and the warm skin of his neck began. He made a low hum in his throat, warning her to stop prodding him.

  She withdrew her hand and extended a tendril instead. He stiffened as he felt it enter his chest through the leather. She was feeling him now from the inside. There was no wound. His pain was everywhere. She felt the strain in his right shoulder from the many blows the heavy sword had landed. His knee hurt. He had been struck hard in the belly and on his left shoulder. Those places throbbed. She felt his continued amazement that he had emerged unscathed. He would recover quickly with food and rest.

  Sleep. She told him, adding an insistence through the thread she knew would cause his body to obey. She waited until she felt him slump back against the rough stone wall behind them, and then withdrew her tendril and sent it into William. He, too, was unhurt. He hugged the Grimoire to his chest, was alert and unafraid. Sleep. She felt him relax and heard his breathing deepen. Carefully, she took the Grimoire from his arms. She opened the book and counted the pages. She put her hand on the third and closed her eyes.

  What is next?

  The necromancer will strike at you. He will not stop. The humiliation you have rained upon him will not dissipate.

  Nadira sighed. It is all or nothing?

  It is.

  How do I stop him?

  The method is spelled out in my pages. He knows them too.

  Nadira allowed a small glimmer of humor to warm her heart. It is too dark to read in here.

  Even with a thousand lamps, you would not understand what is written. Go to Eleusis. The priestess will know. She will teach you how to read that which is not a word.

  How can we escape the city?

  The book was silent. Nadira pressed her hand harder into the vellum. She became aware of a vague feeling of expectation. She was to use what she had learned to get them all through the city gates and to a ship. She took a long breath and as she exhaled she imagined a hundred tendrils as thin as hairs shooting up from the cistern and arching over the city in a canopy of light.

  First Corbett. A tendril found him at the vizier’s house, sitting quietly in a room alone. She saw in his memory a lovely young girl on a low divan, naked but for multiple strands of gold around her neck and arms. She was prettily decorated with henna on her hands and feet. Her hair was elaborately braided and entwined with strands of pearls. The Turks expected a show of faith, but demonstrated their respect for Corbett with the quality of their test. Nadira watched as the men filed into the room and with a gesture from one of the ministers, Corbett was prompted to begin.

  She felt his acute embarrassment as he fumbled with his belt. A great surge of pity overwhelmed her and she considered breaking this thread. It was enough to know that he fulfilled his promise, and that the Turks were convinced that he had renounced his religion. She did not have to see it and feel it. But no. As she flashed back to Corbett sitting alone she realized that he had been unable to perform. A double humiliation now weighed heavy on him. He had been released from having to prove his loyalty to the Turks, but at a great cost. She heard the laughter and ribald comments of the ministers as they took the girl and left him. Ridicule. A savage weapon against a proud man.

  Corbett put his hand over his heart. He felt her there.

  Are you a prisoner? She asked him.

  Yes.

  She thought about that for a moment. Then told him, I have the Grimoire. We must leave Istanbul. Immediately.

  You will be leaving without me. I am to go to the Anemas prison.

  We will not abandon you. Be ready when I come to claim you.

  Nadira searched for DiMarco. He was safe in a caravanserai waiting for the streets to clear. Now Calvin.

  She sat up quickly. Not safe. Calvin was in a dark alley, sword drawn. He was trying to make his way back to Corbett. A feeling of dread was attached to his image.

  A group of janissaries came around the corner. They, too, were looking for Corbett. Calvin did not try to negotiate. He slashed and his sword put one of the sultan’s guards on the ground. The five remaining had steel drawn and flashing. Nadira forgot to breathe. She wondered if she was watching this skirmish in real time, or if the Grimoire was merely feeding her the information she asked for.

  She watched the janissaries leap and strike. They were a team and skillfully worked Calvin back against the buildings, then into the paved street against the trunks of trees with orchestrated movements. Two janissaries were down. Three tormented him. Like Montrose, Calvin was taller and had a longer reach. He was swinging a heavy broadsword while the janissaries preferred the lighter scimitars. Calvin’s blows were heavier and when his strikes connected he hit hard, but he could not see everywhere at once. The guards who had not been struck moved in and out of the broadsword’s reach. They would wear Calvin down before beginning their final assault. Nadira pressed her palms to her eyes, wanting to know, but not wanting to see.

  Calvin was using his legs, now. His kicks were powerful enough to knock back an assailant and they gave him time to focus on the next man who swung at him. But each man he knocked down returned to his feet. Nadira raised her arms trying to ward off blows that landed on Calvin’s blade. He would need help. Soon. She tried casting a tendril to Calvin’s assailants. She imagined puffs of wind tossing dust into their eyes. Nothing she tried to do seemed to help. She would have to leave her body on the narrow ledge and go to him. She lay down and placed the Grimoire carefully on her chest with her arms around it, then cast herself into the darkness.

  She appeared suspended over Calvin’s head. Perhaps now she could use the tendrils. She caught one of the janissaries in a skein and made him dizzy until he tripped and fell. She put an astral foot on his chest when he tried to rise. Calvin’s blade sliced through another man and rose behind his shoulders. Nadira ducked even though she knew his sword could not touch her. The man beneath her foot struggled to rise. She leaned harder, pinning him to the paving stones with her intent. One at time. She fortified her tendril with a thought, “Stay down. You cannot get up.” Calvin backed against a tree and braced himself to launch a vicious kick that sent a janissary sailing past her and against the wall of a house. The man’s head struck the building at an odd angle and he slumped to the foundation, unconscious. Nadira cast a tendril at him to keep him that way, then spun about to throw a net at the man abou
t to leap at the Templar. She caused him to stumble, but could not check his movement. Calvin had time to plant his feet firmly and strike the enemy’s sword arm. He then leaned on the tree, panting, as he readied himself for the last one.

  Nadira’s man began to roll away and she found she could not completely stop a man who was determined to move, but managed only to slow him. “One more,” she shouted at Calvin, though she knew he could not hear her. Her man got to his feet and charged Calvin, scimitar raised. The Templar’s shoulders rose again as he swung and knocked the last janissary’s blade into a high arc over the shrubs and into the back garden of another house. But his hands were wet with blood and sweat, and the force of this last blow sent his own blade bouncing and clanging on the paving stones ten paces down the street. Calvin turned and leaped upon the disarmed man, taking him down with a knee to his chest and hands on his throat. Nadira felt herself called to her body and slid into its warmth in the darkness of the cistern.

  She sat up against the wall and took deep breaths.

  It was William who had called for her. He touched her arm. “Do you have the Grimoire? I do not.”

  “Yes,” she said, pressing it into his hands. She had not exerted herself in the least yet she gasped as though she had been the one who swung the great sword and kicked her enemy into a house. A searing pain tore at her leg and she cried out.

  “What is it?” Montrose cried. She heard the splash that told her he had leaped into the water.