Blades of Valor Read Online Free PDF

Baldwin echoed.
    “Your servants will feed Rowan and me while we wait.”

Eight
    T homas woke to great shrieking groans. Startled and confused, he sat straight up, unconscious of the blanket dropping away from his upper body.
    The light around him was dim and diffused to a hazy, pale glow, and it took great effort for him to distinguish from that light the tent walls that surrounded him.
    The great shrieking groans grew louder.
    Then he heard giggles behind him.
    He clutched the blanket and swung around to see two veiled servant girls, one carrying a pitcher, the other a basin. Their giggles continued.
    Thomas mustered as much dignity as possible.
    “The madness outside?” He stumbled through those words in their Arabic language, so strange yet so familiar. “Is it not early in the day for torture and executions?”
    More giggles.
    Before Thomas could enquire further, the tent flaps swirled open and a large figure entered, dark against the sunlight that streamed in behind his back.
    “Be gone!” the figure roared. “Leave this man in peace!”
    The girls merely giggled again, and only when the large man advanced with an uplifted, threatening hand did they run past him, still giggling.
    It was the Arab, Muzzamar. Thomas had seen him briefly the night before, and then only by the light of a small torch, as he and Sir William bartered with great animation.
    Although Muzzamar was obviously fat, even with the layers of fine and colorful cloth draped around him, he moved with a softness that suggested athletic grace. His eyes, almost lost within that broad face, were sharp. The gray goatee, well trimmed. The deep lines around his mouth showed years of laughter, yet no man reached his age and position without the ability to dispatch the most vicious enemy, and Thomas warned himself to be on his guard.
    Muzzamar lowered himself to sit on a stool near Thomas. “This generation has little respect for their elders. In my youth, I would have been whipped for hesitation to obey any command.”
    The large man continued a steady stream of complaints, but Thomas could see the man used the noise of his own words as a screen while his sharp eyes studied Thomas. During the previous night, their meeting had been hurried, and most of Muzzamar’s attention had been on the knight who carried the purse of gold and negotiated a price of safe passage for Thomas.
    The shrieks and groans outside reached a higher pitch.
    Thomas lifted an eyebrow in question.
    “Camels,” Muzzamar explained. “Evil beasts. Smelly, stubborn, and evil. Put upon this earth only to try men’s souls. They will protest their load this soundly every morning until we reach Damascus.”
    Thomas pressed his leg against the sealed package beside him beneath the blanket. “Am I not to travel to Nazareth?”
    “Of course, of course,” the man said. “From here, we travel to the Valley of Jezreel. After several days’ passage through the valley, near Mount Tabor, a road leads north to Nazareth. Some of mymen will take you there as this caravan continues northeast to Damascus. Did not your friend explain?”
    “Sir William had time to explain little,” Thomas said. “He cautioned me to avoid soldiers who might inspect this caravan.”
    “Good advice indeed,” Muzzamar said quickly. “And something I cannot repeat enough. We travel in this land only by a pass of safe conduct granted by the Mamelukes. That safe conduct does not include passage for men from across the Great Sea. Should you be discovered, I cannot vouch for your life.”
    Muzzamar gestured behind Thomas. “Those worthless servant girls left you clothes of the desert. Protect your face from sun and wind, of course, but also from curious Mameluke soldiers. You will travel among the slaves, but even so, be advised to wear a covering at all times.”
    Muzzamar paused, then said, “I should not worry overmuch about the soldiers, however. This caravan carries much wealth. On these roads, we face a much