Release date: October 17, 2022
Subgenre: Historical adventure
About The White Lion:
Excerpt:
It was the soft scuff of booted feet that caused the man to whirl, one sinewy hand dropping to the hilt of his long knife. The sound of pursuit did not bode well in the tight warren of alleys at the heart of ancient Acre, sandwiched between the Venetian Quarter and what had once been the district of their ancestral enemies, the Genoans. The solitary man did not pause to see who shadowed him. Not here. This no-man’s land was not the place for confrontations. He spun and lengthened his stride.
By the moon’s fulsome light, he descended rough-hewn steps until he emerged into a crude square where four crooked alleys met. The Piazza di Lazaretto, it was called — the Lepers Square — for here is where the afflicted stopped on their way to the leprosarium of the Order of St. Lazarus of Jerusalem. This evening, however, the place was deserted. Awnings of slatted wood protruding from mud brick facades, some mere frames hung with tattered canvas. Nothing moved in the silver-shot gloom. No lepers seeking shelter. No street corner fences hawking stolen wares, no strumpets on the prowl or pimps looking for fresh meat, no dagger-men lounging in the shadows, seeking to hire themselves out for a dishonest night’s work. Only a soft dry breeze, reeking of dust and antiquity. In its rustle the fellow heard the stamp of feet and the panted curses of his pursuers.
They would find him no easy mark, this man. Neither soft like the merchants of the Levant, nor scrawny like those beardless Crusaders newly come from across the sea, here was a figure chiseled from whalebone and gristle, his frame hung with corded muscle and rope-like sinew. A poulain, he was, born of European blood on the soil of Outremer. Thus, his was the fair hair, golden beard, and pale eyes of a Frank, coupled with the sun-darkened skin, turban, and flowing garb of a Saracen. He put his back to a pitted mud brick wall and hitched at his belt, resettling his knife on his hip.
He did not have long to wait.
Two men burst into the empty square, their faces sinister masks in the pale moonlight. By their turban-wrapped helmets and quilted aketons, both were Turcopoles — Syrian Christians who served as mercenaries, bolstering Acre’s defenses. The taller of the two had a forked beard the color of soot and brass rings on the fingers of his left hand; his companion’s face bore puckered ridges of scar from an old sword-cut.
The Turcopoles skidded to a stop as the solitary man stepped from a well of shadow beneath an awning. “Why have you dogs been sniffing after me?” He spoke the tongue of the Franks with a Syrian accent. “Damn your black hearts! If thieves you are, you’ll get naught from me but a flat purse and hard blows!”
“Tancred of Antioch?” replied the fork-bearded Turcopole. “Are you Tancred of Antioch?”
By the moon’s fulsome light, he descended rough-hewn steps until he emerged into a crude square where four crooked alleys met. The Piazza di Lazaretto, it was called — the Lepers Square — for here is where the afflicted stopped on their way to the leprosarium of the Order of St. Lazarus of Jerusalem. This evening, however, the place was deserted. Awnings of slatted wood protruding from mud brick facades, some mere frames hung with tattered canvas. Nothing moved in the silver-shot gloom. No lepers seeking shelter. No street corner fences hawking stolen wares, no strumpets on the prowl or pimps looking for fresh meat, no dagger-men lounging in the shadows, seeking to hire themselves out for a dishonest night’s work. Only a soft dry breeze, reeking of dust and antiquity. In its rustle the fellow heard the stamp of feet and the panted curses of his pursuers.
They would find him no easy mark, this man. Neither soft like the merchants of the Levant, nor scrawny like those beardless Crusaders newly come from across the sea, here was a figure chiseled from whalebone and gristle, his frame hung with corded muscle and rope-like sinew. A poulain, he was, born of European blood on the soil of Outremer. Thus, his was the fair hair, golden beard, and pale eyes of a Frank, coupled with the sun-darkened skin, turban, and flowing garb of a Saracen. He put his back to a pitted mud brick wall and hitched at his belt, resettling his knife on his hip.
He did not have long to wait.
Two men burst into the empty square, their faces sinister masks in the pale moonlight. By their turban-wrapped helmets and quilted aketons, both were Turcopoles — Syrian Christians who served as mercenaries, bolstering Acre’s defenses. The taller of the two had a forked beard the color of soot and brass rings on the fingers of his left hand; his companion’s face bore puckered ridges of scar from an old sword-cut.
The Turcopoles skidded to a stop as the solitary man stepped from a well of shadow beneath an awning. “Why have you dogs been sniffing after me?” He spoke the tongue of the Franks with a Syrian accent. “Damn your black hearts! If thieves you are, you’ll get naught from me but a flat purse and hard blows!”
“Tancred of Antioch?” replied the fork-bearded Turcopole. “Are you Tancred of Antioch?”
Amazon
USA
ePub | mobi | PDF
UK
About Scott Oden:
Scott Oden is a bestselling author of historical fantasy and
sword-and-sorcery. Since his debut in 2005, his books have received
starred reviews from Publishers Weekly and Booklist; he has been an
Amazon Editor’s Pick and has been nominated for a Gemmell Award. His
work has been endorsed by such preeminent authors as Steven Pressfield,
David Anthony Durham, and John Gwynne.
Scott lives in the foothills of the Appalachians with his lovely wife,
Shannon, and a variety of dogs — all of them neurotic and prone to
dancing like no one’s watching.
Before turning his hand to writing, Scott worked the usual slate of odd
jobs, from delivering pizza to stocking shelves at a local grocery. In
his spare time, he likes table-top roleplaying games, reading, and
making the occasional bracelet from old stone beads. He dreams of
running away from reality and living in a Hobbit hole . . .
Website | Twitter
No comments:
Post a Comment