James Acton 04 - The Templar's Relic Read Online Free PDF Page A

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    Tears streaked Malik’s cheeks. He couldn’t help it. He was terrified. Screams echoed off the hill at their backs as the infidel Frankish soldiers charged with sword and lance, a massacre unlike anything he could have imagined, beginning. He held onto the other children, trying to shield their eyes from the horrors he couldn’t help but take in.
    His eyes, unblinking, red, blurred as the thousands hemmed in by the horses and tents of the invaders, pushed themselves back toward the hill, and away from the advancing army. Women and children pled to Allah, the men prayed as they tried to shield their wives and loved ones from the onslaught.
    But it was hopeless. The hill was too steep, there was no way to climb it. And the armies surrounded them on the other three sides, slashing and stabbing their way forward, decapitating and goring hundreds at a time, the hoofs of their beasts crushing any survivors.
    And through it all he saw John, standing beside the knights that had rescued them, the knights who had ultimately turned them over to the garrison now committing the slaughter, all on one whispered word of a small boy whose head was now buried in Malik’s thigh.
    John had pled to them, but they had refused to let us go, instead lashing us to the group of prisoners they had already collected, leaving only John free. He had fought valiantly against the knights, but when one drew his sword to cut him down, Malik had yelled for John to stop. The words weren’t understood, but everyone knew what was meant, and John, resigned to the fate of his companions, dropped to the desert floor and wept.
    “Malik!”
    Malik turned toward the voice calling him. It was Imam Ali, fighting his way toward him. Malik began to push through the crowd, toward his Imam, but it was almost no use, the crowd surge carrying both of them toward the base of the hill. But in time, each made a little progress, and eventually they clasped each other’s hands.
    “Malik, my boy, why? Why are you here?”
    Malik felt the shame fill his chest and stomach. “I am sorry, Imam, but I came across these boys”—he pointed at the three with his chin, his arms still around them—“being held prisoner by slavers. I felt compelled to rescue them.”
    The Imam nodded, reaching out and feeling the scroll tucked in its case under Malik’s robes.
    Malik’s voice broke. “I’m so sorry I failed you!”
    Imam Ali smiled at his pupil. “You did Allah’s will, by saving these boys.” He patted each on the head as they all struggled to maintain their balance, the crowd jostling them in their desperation.
    The infidel soldiers were less than fifty paces away.
    Malik looked down at the three sobbing boys, then at his Imam. “But to what end? At least with the slavers they would have lived! All I have done is kill them!”
    “It is Allah’s will. They have earned their place in Paradise.”
    And with that he turned to face the infidels and yelled, at the top of his voice, “Stop, and listen to my words. Give yourself to Allah, and face your enemies with courage in your eyes, and peace in your heart, for today we enter Paradise, to celebrate our sacrifice with our loved ones for eternity, at Allah’s and the blessed Prophet’s side.” He held up his hands. “Do not run, but turn and face your enemy. Show them your bravery, show them your faith, a faith these infidels can never have, can never understand, for they will never know the love of Allah and the Prophet, peace be upon him.”
    Malik thought Imam Ali’s words wasted, but the screaming began to subside, as did the jostling, and those nearest him stopped, and turned, then others, and soon the mass of screaming flesh, desperate to attempt the impossible climb, stopped.
    And so did the infidels.
    The few hundred prisoners that remained all stood, most still weeping, but quieter now, their faces, rather than their backs, toward the murderers, murderers who would now need to look their victims in the