The Bone Conjurer
In the time of the Crusades, the Knights Templars were holy warriors who seemed to be blessed by God himself. But over the years, the order dissolved into mysteries both sacred and profane–creating an object whose power bends to the true nature of its owner….But until she held it in her hands, archaeologist Annja Creed hadn't heard of the Skull of Sidon nor the twisted tale of its origins. Even now, she's still not convinced. Yet someone wants it badly enough to hire a man who wields power beyond her imagining. Power enough to prevent Annja from protecting the mysterious skull. And power enough to kill.
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âIâll give you twenty-four hours to bring the skull to me.
âIf you do not comply, at precisely five minutes beyond the twenty-four-hour mark, I will kill you. Got it?â
Annja nodded. âHow am I supposed to find you?â
Serge leaned close and hissed in her ear. âThe Linden Hill cemetery off Starr Street. Tomorrow morning, this time.â
âA graveyard? Swell,â she mumbled.
Something sharp pricked her wrist. Annja let out a yelp as what felt like a knife entered her flesh and, with a forceful shove, traveled through to bone.
Serge gave the instrument a twist. Annja screamed. Agony felled her to her knees. Serge tugged it out and stepped back.
Struggling to maintain consciousness, and looking up to see the weird tubelike blade he tucked inside his coat, Annja reached outâfor what, she didnât know. It seemed as though something should come to her hand. Something that could protect her.
Instead, she fell forward and blacked outâ¦.
Titles in this series:
Destiny
Solomonâs Jar
The Spider Stone
The Chosen
Forbidden City
The Lost Scrolls
God of Thunder
Secret of the Slaves
Warrior Spirit
Serpentâs Kiss
Provenance
The Soul Stealer
Gabrielâs Horn
The Golden Elephant
Swordsmanâs Legacy
Polar Quest
Eternal Journey
Sacrifice
Seekerâs Curse
Footprints
Paradox
The Spirit Banner
Sacred Ground
The Bone Conjurer
Rogue Angel>â¢
THE LEGEND
â¦THE ENGLISH COMMANDER TOOK JOANâS SWORD AND RAISED IT HIGH.
The broadsword, plain and unadorned, gleamed in the firelight. He put the tip against the ground and his foot at the center of the blade. The broadsword shattered, fragments falling into the mud. The crowd surged forward, peasant and soldier, and snatched the shards from the trampled mud. The commander tossed the hilt deep into the crowd.
Smoke almost obscured Joan, but she continued praying till the end, until finally the flames climbed her body and she sagged against the restraints.
Joan of Arc died that fateful day in France, but her legend and sword are rebornâ¦.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
PROLOGUE
Granada, Spain, 1430
Cool palace walls offered welcome respite from the thick August heat. Dusty air clogged at the back of Garin Bradenâs throat. While journeying from the Christian lands of Castile to the great Muslim palace of Alhambra the two men had stopped frequently and rested much.
His masterâs horse was a fourteen-hand destrier of Arabian blood, but bred more for battle than long-distance travel.
Garinâs own mount was a pale rouncey dusted with red clay from the roads, on its last legs, surely. Their greater destination of Rouen, Franceâhis master had been called to protect the Maid of Orléansâwould not be achieved with this horse.
Tugging the hood from his head, the young man wandered down a tiled aisle that stretched along a vast pool of indigo water. He could feel the coolness rise from the surface. The water did not stink, which he would expect from so large a pool.
Resisting a dive into the water would be a trial, but heâd been warned to exercise his best behavior in the palace. The sultan did not take kindly to interlopers.
Theyâd been given a brief tour, and left to linger in this, the serrallo, which his master, the Frenchman, had mentioned was built less than a hundred years earlier. Elaborately detailed carvings on the walls arabesqued in precise wooden curves. Hand-painted colors were vivid jewels set into the design. The courtyard was open to the sky and bright morning light illuminated everything as if under a thousand candles. It was blinding.
Garin had never before seen such a blatant display of riches. He did appreciate what coin and barter could bring a man. Someday he would have riches of his own.
Theyâd come to visit an alchemist his master had met a decade earlier during a previous visit to Spain. His master had taken Garin under his wing as an apprentice. The elder manâs methods of teaching were brusque and not always pain free.
Garin missed his father, a German knight. But the man had never so much time for him as Roux offered. Roux, he followed everywhere. Roux was master, teacher, reluctant friend andârarelyâfather. Garin learned much during their travels. He thought he would never cease to marvel at all the world, and its riches, could offer.
Yet he looked forward to a future with no master.
âAhead,â Roux said in his curt manner.
Inside, a long hallway edged the courtyard. The menâs boot heels clicked dully. Here in the shade it was much cooler. A man could seek the liquid shadows and garner relief.
Garin looked at the walls, his eyes traveling high to marvel over the intricate arabesque work carved into fine, varnished woods. It was a style heâd not seen before traveling to Spain. It was decadent and pleased him to look upon it.
