Behold the Dawn by K.M. Weiland Page B

be seen. Whatever precious amount of good sense knocked around in that lad’s brain was too often outweighed by his insatiable curiosity. And Marek wasn’t often curious of that which was harmless.
    In the distance, the glow of firelight and the murmur of laughter and song wafted across the camp. But round the king’s tent, there was nothing—only the breeze slapping against loose canvas.
    Annan’s frown deepened. That clumsy varlet would prove more trouble than he was worth yet. The thought of leaving Marek to find his own way home from whatever woe he’d got himself into sputtered long enough to give him pause. But Marek’s was a good sword to have guarding one’s back, if not quite good enough to keep himself out of trouble.
    He sighed and started down the narrow, twisting alley between tents.
    Perhaps he had made a mistake in coming here. It was always possible that the Baptist had whispered his hints about Roderic’s treachery with no other motive than forcing a battle with the bishop. It was a battle Annan had no desire to consummate.
    Self-mockery rose again within him. Here he was, hands red with the blood of innocents, forswearing to kill perhaps the one man who deserved to fall beneath his blade. He forced himself to keep an even stride.
    Ahead, a silhouette crouched against a wall of canvas, leaning forward in a hesitant manner that could only have belonged to Marek. Annan cast a glance ahead, trying to spot whomever, or whatever, Marek was trying so diligently to stay hidden from.
    Most likely, it had been their watcher from earlier in the evening. Annan wasn’t exactly surprised that Marek had managed to frighten him off. At least they wouldn’t have to deal with whatever the shadowy individual wanted. And Marek, apparently, had managed to keep himself out of trouble. That almost— almost —brought a smile to Annan’s face.
    He stepped behind Marek and laid a hand on his shoulder.
    Marek jumped and spun around. “Don’t do that to me! You know I have a nervous stomach.”
    “If yours is nervous, the rest of Christendom’s must be terrified.”
    “Chortle all you like, but you’ve no doubt gone and scared him off now.”
    “ Him ?” Annan peered down the dark alley, lit only by moonlight and a distant campfire’s dull orange. “Who?”
    “Him. You know, the bloke you told me to keep a watch on.”
    Nothing out of the ordinary appeared to Annan’s eye. He turned back, intent on a shortcut to their own tent. “Quite a few shadows out tonight. Certain you had the right one?”
    “How many shadows do you know who skulk around in long dark robes? An infidel spy’s probably what it was.”
    Annan canted his shoulders to squeeze through a narrow opening between tents. “I rather think the holy Crusaders have more reason to spy among themselves than do the Saracens.”
    “Aye, well, you just wait ‘til you get a better look at him. Then you’ll be thanking me for me quick eye.”
    “The only thing I’ll be thanking you for, young Marek, is to give your clacking jaws a rest.”
    “How’d your meeting wi’ His Royalty go?”
    “Two invitations for battle in the lists.”
    “Wha, only two?”
    “Watch the mouth, laddie.”
    “You didn’t accept, I hope? Do you have any idea what the penance would be for fighting in the lists here in the Holy Land?”
    They came around the edge of a tent, almost in view of their own camp, and Annan drew to a sharp halt.
    “Mark me,” Marek said, “if you kill a Christian here, you can bid farewell to your absolution— Oh—” That last sound meant that he had seen him too: a helmed knight standing in front of them, one hand propped on his sword.
    The man was easily a hand ’s breadth shorter than Annan, but his build was broad and deep. Here was someone who had hefted a heavy weapon for the majority of his life. And he was obviously waiting for someone— them from all appearances.
    Without turning his head, Annan shot a quick glance to both the