The Codex Lacrimae Read online

  BOOK 1: THE CODEX LACRIMAE

  PART I:

  THE MARINER’S DAUGHTER

  AND DOOMED KNIGHT

  Being the First Part of

  THE ARTIFACTS OF DESTINY

  by:

  A. J. Carlisle

  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!

  Contents

  Preface

  Book One: A Fortress Besieged

  The Arrival of Ibn-Khaldun

  A Quarry Run to Ground

  An Aspect of Fate

  The Words of Urd

  A Market Day, Interrupted

  At the Tavern of the Wayfarer

  The Labyrinth and the Ravens

  A Knight in the Scriptorium

  The Flyting at Caesarea

  Sisters in Grief & the Fishermen of Caesarea

  A Doom Delivered

  The Screaming Pillars of Raj’al-Jared

  A Grandmaster Makes his Move

  A Mother’s Counsel

  Entangling Alliances

  Three Days’ Journey and A Hoplitarch Undone

  Assassins at the Gate

  The Poisoning of Hamzah al-Adil

  Through a Mirror, Darkly

  Book Two: The Roots of Yggdrassil

  The Forest of Alfheim

  Of Norns, Brisingamen , and a Dark Elf

  Fossegrim and the Strömkarlen

  The Citadel of Hel

  A Walk in Hela’s Halls

  The Wastes of Niflheim

  The Grottoes of Mimir’s Well

  Reunion in Niflheim

  The Fenrir-Baude

  The Descent to Niđafjöll

  Index of Names

  Copyright

  Preface

  … Clarinda started to reply, but then another prophetic vision overwhelmed her, its force and images so intense that she leaned against the quarterstaff so as not to fall to her knees.

  It was another waking vision. She was in a snowstorm on a boat that rocked wildly upon some tempestuous sea. A dark shadow with flaming red eyes rose before her and Aurelius — some kind of dragon? — its fanged head so gigantic that it reared into the heavens themselves. Lightning flashed, and the vision shifted in that white burst of energy to a glade deep in the heart of a forest, where hundreds of dwarves lay dead and her companions stood bound against trees. A madman with a long, cruel dagger danced there, screaming in frustration at a blacksmith who hammered steadily at a glowing object on an anvil. A dread deeper than any she’d yet felt filled her at the sight of the incandescent device, knowing somehow that it held as much peril for Creation as the Codex Lacrimae.

  The Codex. The thought of it brought a flood of fragmented images.

  She and Genevieve lay in waterlogged coffins while Khalil led his bedouin tribe from Saladin’s camp and into the desert wastes. Fatima’s face appeared, then, in a stable somewhere fiercely hugging to her a...Huntsman of Muspelheim? The Arabian woman lurched, then, falling to a knee as the stable transformed into a forest glade and she staggered backward from a different, shadowed man, impaled by a screaming sword! Clarinda tried to open her eyes, stop the vision, because the Norns, her sisters, were screaming, dying, and it was her fault. Skuld glared at her as she died, her accusation soul chilling: I name you Fool’s Daughter! The arrogance — how dare you? Why didn’t you listen to us? We’ve lost! You’ve made a future where the Norns die!”

  Book One

  A Fortress Besieged

  Chapter 1

  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. It staggered backward upon bowed legs, barely regaining balance to avoid the edge of the cliff.

  The old man didn’t fare much better than the animal. 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 animal’s horny, black-padded knees brushed against the old man’s left side 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 movements were enough to startle the various birds and animals that lived here. 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 from him the last bit of whimsy.

  Still, I’m tired. Another moment of rest, perhaps.

  Khajen ibn-Khaldun, a Muslim scholar and mystic, pulled the silken aba from his face and shallowly inhaled the warming air. The month-old soreness from the injuries to his ribs yet lingered, and breathing was extremely difficult. 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 absently 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 desperately hoped that his pursuers were thrown off his trail in the sand dunes of the Nafud ad-Dahy desert, where he’d briefly joined a caravan of camel traders heading to Caesarea.

  Here in the deceptive calm of early morning, Ibn-Khaldun knew better than to trust that his trackers had been diverted. Whenever Ibn-Khaldun thought himself rid of his hunters, he’d always eventually discerned a faint, shadowed distortion on the horizon that revealed their steady advance toward him.

  The old man swayed, semi-delirious as he absorbed the sight of the Krak.

  Bits of stone and pebbles skittered noisily down the slope as he made his descent. His eyes stayed focused on the ground before him. Ibn-Khaldun well knew the ironic turns that Allah could create in human existence, and it would be just his ill fortune if he were to slip and break his neck this close to his destination!

  Despite the tiredness, though, he still felt reluctant to mount because of the package in the leather saddlebags on the camel’s backside. Even from these few paces away, Ibn-Khaldun felt the malignant presence of the thing, a virulence infecting the purity of the morning desert air.

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

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

  Something blurred into his awareness near the te
rebinth trees. Considering his aches, age, and exhaustion, it was with surprising alacrity that the old man drew his scimitar.

  The instinctive reaction saved his life. His blade clanged into another, parrying the weapon slightly to the side. The attacker’s momentum carried him forward, stumbling 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 seemed noteworthy for being 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, speaking 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 own blade gratefully as he watched his young savior rear upward on top of the fallen boy. Straddling his opponent’s shoulders, he delivered two quick slaps across the face. Then the rescuer leapt upward, yanking the child upright by bunching a fist into the linen cloth over his chest.

  With a shove he pushed the attacker at Ibn-Khaldun.

  “Apologize!” the dark-haired teenager said fiercely to the callow boy.

  “I’m sorry!” the boy yelled fearfully. 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, wondering if the words were good enough.

  “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 as he 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 cried out. He 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 thoughtfully. Although he’d just been saved by the boy, the old man maintained his guard. There was a heat in the youth’s hazel eyes and a steadiness to his wiry sword arm that belied his apparent twelve or thirteen years of life.

  The adolescent’s 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 noticed the stance and looked straight into Ibn-Khaldun’s eyes. There was an anger in that gaze, but it 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 that seemed oversized for his small frame, which was bound at the waist by a thick leather girdle from which a scabbard depended.

  “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. Then again, “Mother! Over here!”

  There was no response. The boy made a curt bow to Ibn-Khaldun. “Again, I’m sorry he bothered you. Le’hitra’ot — I’ve got to go. Fare well in your travels, and may the next stop be friendlier than this one.”

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

  In spite of his need for haste, Ibn-Khaldun was curious and approached.

  The boy glanced at him, made a move to rise, decided there was still no threat from the old man, and 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 said, gently prodding 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 and remained lying where he had found her. “Is it late?

  “We’re not alone, Ima.”

  She rolled in the direction of his nod toward Ibn-Khaldun and frowned upon seeing him.

  “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. Brushing her hands against her tunic, she gave Ibn-Khaldun a searching look. “Boker Tov,” she said, returning the morning greeting.

  They all 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.

  “Ya akh …, Master Khajen,” Rebecca asked when the two adults sat down to break their fast with some 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 for the sake of a few more minutes of saber play.”

  “It’s not ‘ play,’ Ima,” Jacob said with irritation.

  “The blade is heavier than it looks, Ima,” he continued defensively as he collapsed cross-legged beside the adults, scooping an assortment of dried apricots and almonds from some unwrapped palm leaves, “and I need to practice if the sword’s to become second nature.” As he ate, Jacob’s eyes wandered to the Krak, then settled on Ibn-Khaldun. “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 zea
l 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 was consumed again by a coughing fit.

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

  Rebecca looked quickly to 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 that you’ve traveled widely. I assume you’ve crossed the Great Sea more than once?”

  “The sea, yes,” Rebecca said, “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 he gave our shop to a more...cooperative merchant.”

  Jacob snorted, reaching for another handful of dried fruit and nuts.

  His mother glanced at him, and then said, “We’re returning to my mother’s house in Jerusalem, where I think that my husband will go, if he’s able.”

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