beast refused.
'They are coming!' shouted Emlyn. 'I can see them!'
Murdo whirled to look behind them. The riders could be seen now as they came up over the hill, but they were still too far away to be counted; there might be six or sixteen, he could not tell.
'Help me!' Murdo called, pulling hard on the rope rein. Emlyn dashed to the grain bag and dug in his hands. Then, holding his hands before the camel, he succeeded in coaxing the beast forward a few more steps. But precious moments had been lost; the riders were now much closer.
There were not six or sixteen-there were more than sixty-and they were neither crusaders, nor Immortals. Murdo glimpsed the white-turbaned heads of the riders and his heart quailed. 'Turks!'
The rock pile stood little more than a few dozen paces, but already it was too late. For although he and Emlyn might reach it in time to get themselves out of sight, the foul beast never would.
'Leave it!' said Emlyn.
'No!' shouted Murdo defiantly. 'They will have to kill me to get their hands on my treasure.'
'They will do just that, and think nothing of it.' The monk tugged on his arm. 'Come away, Murdo.'
'No!' Murdo darted to the camel's side and reached for his father's sword. 'Hide behind the rocks. I will hold them off-'
'Murdo, stop!' said Emlyn, his voice taking on a note of authority Murdo had never heard him use before. 'Think! It is not worth your life, son.'
'It is my life!' spat Murdo. 'You cannot know what it means.' He drew the sword, and then unloosed the shield.
Emlyn stepped beside him and gripped him hard by the arm. 'No, Murdo,' he told him. 'Do not imagine that you will defeat them. Put aside the sword.'
'This is our only protection,' Murdo said, quickly strapping the sword belt around his waist.
'Listen to me closely; there is not much time. I can protect you,' the cleric said. 'I can protect us both, but there can be no weapons.'
This was said simply, but with such confidence that Murdo felt his conviction wavering. He gripped the sword hilt in his hand, feeling the comforting heft of the blade. He glanced again at the onrushing Turks; there were over a hundred, and still more appearing over the hill.
'You have trusted me in small things; will you trust me in this?' asked Emlyn. 'Will you do what I ask of you?'
Still watching the enemy's approach, Murdo reckoned that, at best, he would only be able to strike three or four times with the sword before the enemy drove him down with their spears.
'What must I do?' asked Murdo.
'Stand next to me,' Emlyn instructed, 'and take hold of my mantle.'
Although it made no sense, Murdo did as he was told. 'Now give me the sword,' the monk directed.
Murdo hesitated.
'Hear me, Murdo: we do not need it. You must trust me now.'
Emlyn took the sword in both hands, closed his eyes and spoke a few prayer-like words, then began scratching the rough outline of a circle in the hard-baked, rocky dirt. Murdo watched as the Turks raced nearer. The monk completed the circle, joining the ends so that it now enclosed them; he then drew back his arm and let the sword fly. It spun once in the air and landed with a dull thud in the dust a few dozen paces away.
'What are you doing? They are almost here!' he said, unable to keep the fear from edging into his voice.
'This is the cairn,' said the monk. 'It is a powerful symbol.'
'Symbol!' Murdo almost shrieked. He knew better than to trust a priest. Why had he given Emlyn the sword?
'It represents the all-encompassing presence and protection of God. Now do not let go of my mantle, and do not step across the circle – understand?'
Murdo nodded.
'Our Lord Christ said that wherever two or three are gathered in his name, he would be with them.' Closing his eyes, he raised his hands, palm outward, and began to chant.
The Seljuqs were almost upon them now. Murdo could see the foam gleaming on the horses' sides, and the dark, unfriendly eyes of the riders. It took all his courage, but Murdo closed his eyes, too, and listened as Brother Emlyn said, 'In the holy name of Jesu, I invoke the powerful protection of the Three to encompass me even now. I stand within the circle of the Great King's might, and place my life, my spirit, my soul in his loving care. Dearest Lord and Saviour, be to me the Swift Sure Hand of deliverance in danger. While enemies gather round about me, hide me in the hollow of your hand.'
The invocation finished, the two opened their eyes as the foe thundered past; the horses' hooves cast up clouds of grey dust as the riders hurtled by only a short spear's thrust away. The horses, nostrils wide, legs stretching and gathering, raced on as their riders, faces dark beneath white turbans, stared straight ahead, looking neither right nor left.
On and on they came, and Murdo and the priest, absolutely still inside their protecting ring, stood and watched. Murdo held tight to Emlyn's mantle, feeling that any moment one of the riders would see them and attack. But the Turks streamed by without so much as a sideways glance.
Finally, as the last of the enemy warriors flew past, Murdo released his grip on the priest's garment and turned to look for the camel. He glanced around quickly, disbelief turning quickly to alarm. He couldn't see the camel anywhere; the vile creature had vanished.
'The camel is gone.' Murdo's head swivelled this way and that, trying to locate the beast.
'Stand still,' hissed the monk, taking hold of Murdo's arm to hold him in place.
Even as he spoke, another band of Seljuq warriors appeared on the road. Murdo turned to look, and the movement must have been seen, for suddenly a group of enemy warriors swerved from the main body, left the road, and reined to a halt before them. The foremost Seljuq spoke a quick word and twenty spears swung level.
FORTY-THREE
The eyes of the Turks glittered black and hard as chips of jet. The horses tossed their heads, their mouths and flanks speckled white with foam, their slender, almost delicate, legs shifting and restless in the settling dust. Behind them, Murdo saw the main body of the Seljuq war host galloping by; he saw the silver tracings on the horses' tack and the riders' saddles, and the glint of gold-handled knives in their wide cloth belts. He saw the ivory flash of teeth behind black beards, and the snowy mounds of bulbous turbans above lean faces the colour of bronze.
The leader of the war band spoke, and he saw the man's mouth twitch out the incomprehensible words; flecks of spittle flew from his lips, each beaded droplet agleam like a mote of dust caught in the sunlight, his chin thrust up and out in contempt, in menace, in judgement.
All this Murdo saw with a dreadful heightened clarity-made all the more terrible by the dire pounding in his ears. The roar of blood pulsing through his veins filled his head with a booming thunder which drowned out all other sound. His mouth was sticky and dry. His scalp tingled and his heart raced, leaping wildly in his chest like a captive thing trying desperately to free itself. His legs trembled, his muscles aching to run, to flee; it took every last grain of courage to stand within the circle of the caim.
The leader spoke again and as the blade of his lance darted forth, the point came to rest at the base of Murdo's throat. He felt the honed steel bite into his soft flesh, but he did not flinch. He stood to the blade, wishing only for a quick end. His last thought would be of Ragna, and he tried to see her face in his mind. To his dismay, he could not remember how she looked.
How fitting, he thought in disgust. His life had been ruined by priests, and now he would die having trusted one. Despite his resolve never again to believe a priest, that very thing would be his demise.
Sweat trickled down his forehead and cheeks.
