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Brendan Carroll's Blog
Category:
Action/Thriller
Publisher: Brendan Carroll
ISBN-10: 1453700854
Type: Fiction
Pages: 402
Copyright: June 3, 2010
ISBN-13: 9781453700853
Price: $3.99 (eBook)
The entire Order of the Red Cross of Gold finds itself in danger of annihilation as Omar, the Prophet's new world order continues on the path of world domination. Reduced to nothing more than a handful of Knights and a few hundred monks, the Chevalier du Morte has no choice but to flee Scotland and take refuge on St. Patrick's Isle and the Isle of Ramsay where they intend to hold out against the Prophet until the bitter end.
NOTE: IF YOU HAVE NOT STARTED THE "ASSASSIN CHRONICLES" BY BRENDAN CARROLL, YOU SHOULD BEGIN THE SERIES WITH "THE RED CROSS OF GOLD I:. THE KNIGHT OF DEATH"
The entire Order of the Red Cross of Gold finds itself in danger of annihilation as Omar, the Prophet's new world order continues on the path of world domination. Reduced to nothing more than a handful of Knights and a few hundred monks, the Chevalier du Morte has no choice but to flee Scotland and take refuge on St. Patrick's Isle and the Isle of Ramsay where they intend to hold out against the Prophet until the bitter end.
They soon find themselves cut off from the world as Omar's embargoes and blockades prevent free trade and their only connections to the outside world come from smugglers willing to run the blockades trading news and materials for Ramsay Stout. But things are not well in the underworld and soon enough, the Chevalier du Morte finds himself entangled in the affairs of the elves who are under threat of attack from a neighboring kingdom. Mark Andrew must decide whether to stay with the remnants of the Order or come to the rescue of his beloved elves.
Omar's continued fascination with the crystal skulls and his overconfidence in his own skills causes him to make a mistake that solves Mark's dilemma in a most unexpected turn of events. Reconciliation, retaliation and retribution lead to some very interesting situations.
Excerpt
Lucio stopped again in front of the wall he had built with the inscription dedicated to himself… no. To King Nebucchadnezzar and began to read the ancient inscriptions on the wall.
‘Nebucchadnezzar, King of Babylon, the faithful prince appointed by the will of Marduk, the highest of princely princes, beloved of Nabu, of prudent counsel, who has learned to embrace wisdom, who fathomed their divine being and reverses their majesty…’ The words as fresh today as they had been the first time he had heard them read in the unveiling ceremony, but now he smiled at the naiveté of the great king and the strangely proud humility he had possessed, always thanking his god, Marduk, for having made him so wonderful. How strange. How so very foreign a concept to him now. ‘…Babylon was soon the envy of ancient Middle Eastern cities. The king held court in an elaborate way in an ornate city. He was the envy of a great many. It also helped that he had a great army.’ He read these last words and laughed aloud. Surely it had helped… surely it had helped to have a great army, but the words now had an almost childish ring to them and he thought with sad irony that they had been but proud children then. He stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets and entered under the arch of the Ishtar Gate.
In the distance, he could see the ziggurat of Esagila rising above the empty buildings. They had restored many of the structures, but they were now nothing more than empty shells and matched the feeling within him almost perfectly. The Temple of Ishtar and beyond the bare white walls of the terraced buildings was the place where the hanging gardens had once been. He hurried down the long, straight road until he came upon a brass marker bearing a description of the view in several languages. These words too were very old.
“The approach to the Garden sloped like a hillside and the several parts of the structure rose from one another tier on tier… On all this, the earth had been piled… and was thickly planted with trees of every kind that, by their great size and other charm, gave pleasure to the beholder… The water machines [raised] the water in great abundance from the river, although no one outside could see it.”
Diodorus Siculus, Greek Historian.
“This is Babylon,” he said aloud, quoting some ancient forgotten text “dear city of god, your beloved home. The length and breadth are ours, possess it, enjoy it, it is your own.” His words echoed down the empty streets. The other tourists and the guide had long since disappeared. When the sound of his voice had faced, he heard a skittering noise in one of the alleys and spun about to find that he was not alone.
A beautiful woman arrayed in a shimmering white gown walked toward him in the gathering gloom.
“Ishtar?” He said the name, but didn’t know why.
“Son of Naboplassar, you have come home, but why are you so far from your destiny? Your god no longer hears you and is loosed upon your brother. Even now he plots against him in the halls of dust and ashes. Your brother needs you at his side. The Seventh Gate is broken. The time has not yet come for your return to this place.” She smiled at him, but it was a sad smile.
“Astarte?” He said another of the ancient names.
“You would know me as Semiramis, perhaps. These other names are unfamiliar to me and I would not wear them for they are false. Your gardens are not yet restored and the beauty of this place is yet to be turned to the good of the kings of men. Many evils haunt this place, son of Naboplassar. The plain of Ahaseurus awaits you.”
She turned and walked away from him. He ran after her down the alley, but she was gone. Nothing more than an apparition. With a sinking feeling, he knew he had missed the bus and he was ninety kilometers from New Babylon.
She had said this place was full of evil. The wind seemed to notice his discomfiture and picked up its howling through the streets of the ghostly city as a chill ran up his spine. Surely God was laughing at him now. The great king, afraid and alone in the streets of the great city he had helped to build. He sat down quickly on the cobbles and pressed his palms together. Within moments, the wind was blowing his empty clothing through the streets of Old Babylon while he winged his way back to New Babylon, leaving behind the specters of his long-dead past… as well as his passport, his driver’s license, all his credit cards and his tattered little collection of family photos that he kept in a tiny plastic bag tucked inside his wallet, the very last of his few worldly possessions that were truly unique to his person.
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