Prologue
Outremer
The cold night wind carried laughter on it as it blew against Sin’s desert-blistered cheeks and dry, cracked lips. Unused to such a sound, he crouched down low in the shadows on the outskirts of the pilgrim camp and listened. It had been a long time since he’d heard such.
But his hesitation cost him as Marr rammed his barbed stick into his spine. “Why do you stop, maggot? Go!”
Sin turned to his Saracen master with a look so feral that for once Marr shrank back.
Barely ten-and-eight years old, Sin had spent the last four and a half years of his life beneath the harsh hand of his trainers. Four and a half long years of being beaten, tortured and cursed. Of having his morals, his language and his identity stripped from him.
At long last he’d become the animal they called him. There was nothing left inside now. No pain, no past.
Nothing but an emptiness so vast that he wondered if anything could ever make him feel again.
He was death, in every sense of the word.
Rad handed him the long, curved dagger. “You know what to do.”
Aye, he did. Sin took the dagger in his hand and stared at it. His hand was one of a youth just barely entering his manhood and yet he had committed sins and crimes that had aged him into an ancient.
Marr urged him forward. “Finish quickly and tonight you will eat well and have a bed for your comfort.”
Sin looked back at Marr as his stomach rumbled from hunger. Day to day, they fed him only enough to barely keep him alive. He had to kill for anything more than a crust of rotten bread or stale water. They knew he would do anything for a decent meal to lessen the hunger cramps in his belly. Anything for a night free of torture and pain.
From the shadows, Sin watched the English knights sitting in their camp. Some of them ate while others played games and passed wartime stories. Their tents were bright even in the darkness. Their colors faded by the night, but still evident.
Again, he heard their music and songs.
It had been so long since he last heard Norman French spoken, let alone sung… It even took him a few minutes to remember and understand the foreign words they used.
On his hands and knees like the animal they had trained him to be, Sin crept toward the camp. He was a shadow. An unseen phantom who had but one purpose.
Destruction.
He slipped easily through the pilgrims and guards until he reached the largest and grandest of the tents.
Here was the target for the night.
Lifting the bottom of the tent, he looked inside.
A gold brazier stood in the center. The coals from low fire cast shadows on the linen canvas. In one corner was a bed so large and golden that for a minute Sin thought he was dreaming the sight. But it was real. The carved dragon heads were regal and bespoke the high station of the man who slept in blissful ignorance while he clutched at covers made from snow leopards and lions.
A man who had no idea his life was about to end.
Sin focused his gaze on the target. One quick cut and he would be dining on figs and roasted lamb. Drinking wine and sleeping on a feather tick instead of scratchy sand where he had to be vigilant against scorpions and asps, and other things that scavenged in the night.
Peace.
But as he stared at all the finery, a new idea came to him while the wounds and welts on his back throbbed. He looked about the tent again, noting the wealth and power of the man on the bed.
This was a king. A fierce king who made the Saracens tremble with fear. One who might be able to free him from his owners.
Freedom.
That one word rang in his head. If he had any soul left, he would gladly trade it for a night’s sleep where chains didn’t hold him down. Trade it for a life where no one ruled him.
No one tortured him.
