Free Crusade by Unknown

passage, glaring at a servant who passed, carrying a tray of peeled fruits. He wanted to pummel the wall, but was afraid it would hurt and, instead, settled for slapping it hard with his palm.
    “What is wrong, my prince?”
    Baraka whipped round at the whispery voice. Before him stood a hunched, wizened old man. His hair was so matted it had formed into clumped coils that twisted like fat worms down his back. His creased, weathered skin was dark with sun and dirt, and his eyes, white with cataracts, looked almost pupil-less. He wore a threadbare gray robe and his bare feet were caked with dust.
    “Where have you been?” demanded Baraka. “You said you would be at the ceremony.” He folded his arms across his chest. “My father isn’t pleased, Khadir. He wanted you to make a favorable augury of the marriage.”
    Khadir grinned, showing a couple of yellow-brown stumps in an otherwise toothless mouth. He proffered a cloth doll that was gripped in his fist. “ Look! ” he hissed in a furtive whisper. “I’ve given her a heart.”
    Baraka watched with mounting disgust as Khadir opened up the back of the filthy doll, which had been cut open, then crudely sewn back together. A fetid smell drifted out, and Baraka saw a small piece of flesh inside, surrounded by the cloth stuffing. It was slippery-looking and liver-colored, possibly the heart of a rabbit or some other vermin. Baraka recoiled, utterly repulsed.
    Khadir chuckled and laced the doll back up, pulling the stitches tight. “She needs a heart, if she’s to feel,” he chanted in a singsong voice. “She does. She does.”
    “Why do you carry that foul thing around with you?” said Baraka, grimacing. “You’ve had it since we took Antioch.”
    “She was a gift from your father,” said Khadir, frowning as he threaded the doll through the leather belt that was looped around his scrawny waist, on the other side of which hung a gold-handled dagger, its hilt embedding a plump, glossy ruby. “Would you abandon the things he gives you?”
    “My father gives me nothing,” replied Baraka moodily.
    “That will change,” said Khadir, giving the boy his full attention now the doll was safely stowed.
    “No, it won’t. I tried to join in one of his discussions, like you told me to,” said Baraka, lowering his voice as two courtiers passed them. “But he ...” Baraka felt his face grow hot. “He dismissed me like I was nothing! Like I was a silly child.” He jabbed at his chest. “I’m fifteen, Khadir. I have a wife. I’m not a child!”
    “No, no,” said Khadir softly, “you are not.”
    “He’ll never take me into his trust.”
    Khadir’s mouth split in a wide grin.
    “What is funny?” snapped Baraka.
    Khadir’s smile vanished, his white eyes narrowing to slits. It was like a candle being blown out. “Change is nigh. I see it on the horizon, like storm clouds gathering. War will come again.”
    Baraka shook his head, ignoring the shiver the shift in the old man’s manner sent up his spine. “How will that help me?”
    Khadir giggled like a little boy and his solemnity dissolved. “Because you will start it.”
    “What are you talking about?” Baraka’s tone was scathing, but he was intrigued by the prediction.
    “Your father has not yet fulfilled his destiny, the destiny I told him was his before he killed Sultan Kutuz and took the throne. Nations will fall,” murmured Khadir, “kings will perish. And he will stand above them all on a bridge of skulls that spans a river of blood. Your father’s destiny is to drive the Christians from these lands. This he must do. But I fear there are those in his court who will persuade him otherwise.” Khadir’s eyes flashed with some hidden anger. “Since Omar died, he has lost his way. We must set him back on his true path.” Khadir leaned in close and touched Baraka’s arm. “Together, we will help him. And when he sees what you have done for him, he will see you for who you are: a man and a