When he was certain no one else lurked nearby, Murdo slid over the crown of the dune and down the other side. He crossed to the tent quickly, flitting out of the moonlight and into the shadow to squat before the odd-shaped tent-like a great black wing resting on the sand-its entrance rising to a single opening tall enough for a man to enter standing up.

He stepped cautiously to the opening and peered inside; from the little he could see, the interior seemed to be filled with boxes and chests of various sizes and shapes. He paused, listening for a moment, and then went in, nearly falling over a wooden chest just inside the entrance. The chest was large and bound with an iron chain which rattled slightly. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could make out still more articles in the gloom-rolls of cloth, numerous jars and basins, and caskets. Fumbling over these, he found a box that was not chained, opened it, and reached inside.

His fist closed on a quantity of coins. He withdrew a handful and held them before his face. They were golden bezants, and the chest was full to overflowing with them.

Straining into the darkness of the tent, Murdo began searching for the Holy Lance. The amir's plunder had been thrown into the tent in haste, and lay in a haphazard jumble. Crouching, crawling, Murdo picked his way among the chests and caskets, praying he would know the lance when he found it, all the time working his way slowly towards the back of the tent where he discovered a shambling mound of hastily-stored loot taken from the crusaders. His hopes rose as he waded in and began carefully pulling mail hauberks and long swords from the heap.

The voices outside the tent took Murdo by surprise.

Mind whirling, he ducked down and glanced towards the tent entrance and saw the dark shapes of horses moving outside. Murdo squeezed himself further back in the tent, hoping against hope that they would not come inside.

As Murdo shrank away from the entrance however, one of the guards entered, took up a box and backed out quickly; another guard followed and likewise took up a chest, and backed out of the tent.

Murdo's heart fell. The Turks had begun loading the treasure, preparing to carry it away. He edged further back into the tent, his mind whirling furiously, trying to think how he would escape.

Four more guards entered the tent in rapid succession and retreated with boxes, which they took to waiting pack horses. There came a little space while the chests were bound into place on the pack frames.

Murdo realized what this meant: of the twenty or so guards protecting the treasure, only six were loading and packing it. Judging from all the boxes and chests, it would take them a fair while before they worked their way to the back of the tent. Murdo steadied his faltering courage; he still had time to work.

The guards returned for more chests; Murdo counted them off one by one and, when the sixth had gone, sprang into action. Feeling with his hands in the dark, he seized upon various objects-bowls and cups, bags of coins, silken garments, banners, small aromatic boxes rattling with loose gemstones-discarding them even as he touched them. All the while, he listened to the Turks talking outside, trying to discern from the sound of their voices when they would return to the tent for more treasure.

The third time the guards returned, he heard their steps in time to hide again; but the fourth time, he had no warning at all. He had worked his way towards the centre of the tent, and was on his knees, feeling among the boxes, when the first of the guards entered the tent.

He froze in place, hoping he would not be seen in the dark. The man stooped, picked up a chest and backed out. Murdo crouched swiftly, trying to hide before the next guard entered. As he went down, his elbow knocked against a long rod-like object which was leaning against the top of the chest beside him. The thing slid down and struck against a box with a solid thump. Murdo's hand snaked out and caught the staff as it fell.

The slender object, cold and hard under its splendid winding cloth, filled his hand with such a familiar weight that he knew, even without looking beneath the silken cloth and braided cord, that he had found the Iron Lance. In the same instant, the Turks outside stopped talking. Murdo's heart clenched in his chest. Had they heard him?

One of the guards shouted something, and Murdo, clutching the ancient relic, edged further back towards the rear of the tent. He watched the entrance and saw a flicker of flame kindle outside: torches.

He was out of time. Gripping the lance, he rolled to the side of the tent where it sloped down to the ground. The thick woollen fabric was secured by stakes at the corners and along the edges, but the sandy ground was soft and he easily loosened the nearest stake and wormed his way under the heavy tentcloth and out.

Murdo found himself between the tent and the foot of the dune. A swift glance towards the valley entrance confirmed what he had already guessed-a dozen or more Turks on horseback stood guard there; six more were loading the pack horses on the other side of the tent, and one of these had a torch.

He drew a deep breath and pressed himself into the shadow at the foot of the dune. It took all his nerve to stay there, still as a stone, while the Turk searched the tent with the torch-only the thickness of the tentcloth separating him from discovery and death.

After a hasty search, the guard emerged once more, threw the torch onto the sand, and called to his fellows. They entered by turns to collect more treasure. As the last guard ducked into the tent, Murdo made his escape.

Moving in the shadow, he slipped along the steeply rising foot of the dune, keeping the tent between himself and the Turks as much as possible. He ran with an easy, silent, gliding lope, holding the lance low at his side, and making for the end of the little dune valley where he crouched to wait. He watched while the guards carried out six more chests, and then untied three horses and brought them to stand with the others.

The instant they turned towards the tent, Murdo was away again. With a last backward glance, he moved into the light, crossed the valley floor, and started up the opposite face of the dune. He had taken no more than ten steps when one of the Turks cried out behind him.

In midstep Murdo turned, leapt back, and ran for the shadows once more. He reached the opposite dune and, without a quiver of hesitation, bounded up the shadowed slope. There were more shouts coming from the tent, and two Turks on horseback pounding after him. He reached the top just as the nearest rider started up the dune. Murdo caught the glint of moonlight on upraised steel, vaulted over the edge and down the other side.

Halfway down the slope, he changed direction, running along the face of the sandy hill to a crease formed by the meeting and merging of two nearby dunes. There he dived into the fold of the hill and hunkered down in a knot of tall seagrass, tucking the lance under him while the horse and rider crested the dune and plunged down the other side, passing within a few paces.

Upon reaching the bottom, the rider spurred his mount towards the mouth of the valley. Murdo watched him go, and in that moment his fear left him. This would be, he thought, just one more game of hare and hunter – the game he had played so often with his brothers in Orkney.

Murdo waited until his hunters had passed, and then, swift as any hare, he skittered up the sand hill to the top and crouched in the long grass. Taking the hem of his cloak, he teased out a few threads from the ragged edge and, pulling gently, he twisted them into a sturdy line and wound it around his fingers. He tied one of the threads to one of the tough stalks and, using all the stealth at his command, he crawled through the grass, back towards the valley entrance, paying out the line as he went. After a few paces, he paused and tied the other end of the string to a second stalk and continued, edging his way along slowly, slowly.