by Dan Davis
“Some of us would be made into slaves. We would survive.”
“A few of your women, the youngest and prettiest perhaps, made into wives for those stinking barbarians? You call that survival?” I lowered my voice. “Send the first of the immortals with me and my people. We will make a break for Syria, fight our way through if we have to. We will come up with a way to get at Hulegu there.”
He shook his head. “There is still hope. I believe that Master Rukn al-Din has a plan for our survival. He is playing for time. Why do such a thing unless there was a course of action that he has planned? No, none of us flee until there is no hope left.”
I acquiesced. Likewise, I put aside my revulsion for his revenants for the time being and did not seek the conflict that would have arisen from slaughtering them, or for arguing further for their destruction. I chose the peaceful path for I would need guides to take me over the mountains when everything fell apart.
And I was increasingly certain that it would not be long before all hope for the Assassins was truly lost.
***
It was November 1256 when Hulegu finally lost patience with the delays and evasions from Rukn al-Din.
The Grand Master was given a final command to appear—in person, no proxies—, which he declined to do. And Hulegu’s final message to Rukn al-Din stated that, despite the promises of submission, and the fact that towers and battlements at key castles were being dismantled, he did not believe that the master truly intended to submit.
The snows did not come. Even more than Rukn al-Din’s pathetic and humiliating attempts at stalling for time did not dismay Hassan as much as the failure of the snows.
“God has forsaken us,” he said, and many of his men said the same.
It was bitterly cold in the hills, despite the lack of heavy snows. Flurries would be whipped up by the biting winds and the icy flakes would slice into exposed skin from all angles, including from below. Mongol scouts roamed the hills, and we busied ourselves laying ambushes, day and night. Those few we captured alive we questioned thoroughly. Often, we encouraged them with the application of heated steel to delicate parts of their bodies, but they rarely knew very much that we could not discover through our own scouting, and through communication with other castles.
But one by one, those castles were cut off and surrounded.
The Assassin’s castles were particularly well equipped to deal with sieges and most had at least one mangonel mounted upon a wall or tower so it could loose stones at attackers from a distance.
The biggest castles, at Alamut and the other regional centres, were equipped with the latest-style catapults, which were devices that Christendom called counterweight trebuchets. With such engines, we could throw massive boulders down onto the attackers to break up their assaults, harass their siege works and, ideally, smash their own trebuchets and engines, and break their assault towers.
By using those weapons, the Ismaili Assassins were employing the most powerful siege engines in the world. Even the siege masters of distant Cathay could not throw stones of such sizes as these were capable of. But the Mongols had something that no one else west of China had yet employed effectively in warfare.
Gunpowder.
From across the valley, well-hidden in the rocks, I watched the enemy mangonel throw something like a keg toward the castle of Nevizar. The small black shape tumbled slowly in the air as it hurtled up the hill from the Mongol siege lines. I lost sight of the object as it closed on the castle. Then, a flash of light and smoke and dust flew apart from the base of the wall. A few moments later, an almighty bang sounded, making us all jump in fright. The explosion echoed from the peaks. When the smoke cleared and the dust settled, the wall of the castle appeared unharmed.
“What in the name of God is that?” I said.
“I have heard of this,” Stephen said beside me, for he had begged to journey with us to witness the Mongol forces that were pushing into Alamut Valley. “It is made with certain substances and creates an artificial fire that can be launched over long distances. A monk in Acre told me that by only using a very small quantity of this material, much light can be created, accompanied by that horrible fracas. He claimed it was possible with it to destroy a town or an army. But, see, it appears to do almost no damage to the walls. A simple stone launched from the same mangonel does more to wreak destruction upon the fortifications. I wonder why they use the artificial fire at all?”
Thomas scoffed. “Did you not hear the noise, young Stephen? Did it not stir your heart? Such a noise and us so far distant from the source of it. What do you think it would be like to be a man inside that castle? To be a man upon that wall?”
Eva’s eyes shone as she stared down at the scene. “Imagine that fire, burning in that fashion, in the midst of us here. If one of those casks fell at our feet, how do you think we would fare, Richard?”
Over the decades, I had taken terrible wounds and healed them all. I feared decapitation, and I feared losing a limb. But such injuries were not very likely in the course of ordinary combat.
The sight of that Mongol bomb, however, awakened an old, mortal’s fear of sudden death. More, it was a fear of the flesh and bone of my body being blown apart like the stones and twigs that weapon threw out across the mountainside with every detonation.
“I would prefer not to face such a thing, my dear, it is true. But we must attack all the same.”
The detachment from the Mongol army was perhaps only five thousand strong, and yet that was a great many men more than we had. The most forward group encamped below us leading the attack numbered about a thousand and even that many would crush us easily.
Messages had flown back and forth across the free castles of the Alamut region and Hassan had urged his fellow leaders to make an attack on the Mongols while they could yet do so. As well as my own companions, I had brought the thirty immortals, who were steady men and Hassan had forced the thirty revenants on us also. Although they were dangerous, the immortal fedayin kept the revenants under control. And I kept my own people far away from them.
“Where are they?” Thomas muttered, looking up and down the valley. We were expecting a coordinated attack to begin but I was beginning to wonder whether any of the other castles had sent the detachments that they had promised.
“They should have been in position and ready to attack at first light,” Eva said, looking up at the pale sun as a cloud passed across it. “If they are not here by now, why should we expect them to come at all?”
“Ever since I could remember,” Thomas said, “the Assassins were spoken of in hushed tones. They were masters of death in the Holy Land. Men even feared their daggers in Rome and in Paris. And now I am witness to their complete lack of interest in fighting for their own survival.”
“What can anyone do in the face of this?” Stephen said.
“Do you mean to say you would not fight to the death to protect England?” Thomas said, looking closely at him.
Stephen’s eyes took on a faraway look. Above, clouds gathered quickly, as they often did in the mountains. Pale grey, swirling and thick, as though the sky was liquid lead.
“Well,” I said, “if no one else shows then there is nothing we can do. Even with so many immortals, we would be too heavily outnumbered.” Hard words to utter, for I was dying for a fight. I wanted to kill those Mongols and being abandoned by the other Assassins was infuriating.
“If there is no battle today,” Eva said, and glanced over her shoulder, “then your immortals are going to be deeply disappointed.”
“You too, no?” I said. “Thomas, also, I would wager you were looking forward to guzzling some Mongol blood.” He ignored me, pretending that he was above such things. “But the immortals will accept it. It is the revenants, Hassan’s mad blood drinkers, that we will have to contain. They will not listen to reason.”
“When the blood hunger is upon you,” Eva said, “reason is beyond your reach.”
Thomas nodded to himself as she s
poke.
And that hunger, that madness, meant they were almost as dangerous to our own side as to the enemy. It was as if they were no longer themselves, or not in their right minds, and the blood satiated them for so short a time. Whenever their bellies were not filled with blood, most of them delighted in petty violence and thrilled at the suffering of others. That was not so unusual in soldiers, but it was their lack of self-control that concerned me as their notional commander. In fact, the only thing that had kept them subdued and under the cover of the rocks and their cloaks was the sunlight, which they could not stand at all in midday and disliked intensely even on a grey winter morn.
It grew dark even as I pondered what to do about getting them all back to Hassan’s castle without having to kill many of them. A light snow began to fall all across the valley.
“Oh, God,” Eva said. “Richard.”
The revenants had broken away and were descending the mountainside. Heading right toward the flank of the siege engines.
Down in the bottom of the valley, roaming Mongol patrols at the edge of the enemy formations spotted the approach of the group of Assassin fedayin. We watched from high on the side of the hill as Mongol horsemen moved to intercept. They did not move with haste. Why would they? They would have seen a group of around thirty men, on foot. And they were approaching a thousand.
“Should we flee?” Stephen asked. “When the Mongols are done with them, might they not search for others?”
“There is no rush,” I said. “And I wish to see how long before they are slaughtered.”
“At least we will be free from their madness now,” Thomas said.
He hated the revenants more than anyone. I believe it was because he was unhappy with becoming a blood-drinking immortal. He had stayed as himself, but he feared the madness that he knew would come with the blood-starvation. Hassan’s revenants, blood-mad and inhuman, reminded Thomas of what he could become, what he would certainly become, should he be deprived of blood. His resentment and fear were reflected onto the others. Also, their behaviour and conduct were objectively despicable.
The Assassin revenants advanced at a slow run, in three rough ranks, keeping a surprisingly disciplined spacing between each man, and the three ranks. A small group of nine horsemen drew near to them and loosed a volley of arrows.
A couple of the Assassins stumbled but their lines did not slow.
Two more volleys had no effect and the horsemen fell back at walking pace, where more of their comrades joined them. Quickly, a group of twenty, and then thirty or more horsemen milled across the line of attack. Most were the lightly-armoured kind, with the small horses, bows and light spears. But a handful were the Mongols in mail armour, steel helms, riding heavier horses and good swords and heavy lances.
The Mongols were in good spirits as they advanced to the charge. It would be little more than sport to them. A brief diversion from the boredom of a siege.
A moment before the first lines clashed, the revenants surged forward and swarmed the horsemen. They yanked the horsemen from their saddles and slashed at the horses, swords, and daggers flashing. Some tried to wheel about and ride away but the immortals chased them down on foot, accelerating faster than the horses, and pulled them to the ground.
“God’s bones,” Thomas muttered, standing up to get a better look over the rocks.
The revenants ran further toward the loose flank of the Mongol formation while the remaining horsemen scattered. It seemed as though few in the camp had yet noticed they were under attack, and they continued to mill about, busy with normal camp business. The artillery experts brought from distant Cathay continued to work their enormous devices, paying no attention. Even if they noticed, they would trust to their Mongol masters to keep them safe.
In fact, though, there were few soldiers between the revenants and the camp of the siege engineers.
“How far do you think they will get before they are surrounded and swamped?” Stephen asked.
I stood. “Stephen, you will stay here until we return.”
“You are not going down there?” Stephen said, looking to Thomas to share his outrage.
Eva jumped up, grinning, and clambered across the rocks. She was already heading downhill when I turned to the leader of my immortals, squatting patiently in the shade behind the jagged boulders.
“Jalal,” I said, speaking Arabic. “We will attempt to cut through to the Cathay engineers and kill them all. Then we will retreat.”
He nodded and unfolded himself. The fedayin immortal was calm, and as icy as the sky above us, while he related the objective to the rest of his immortal men.
We hurried down the hill. The Assassins were ahead of us, spread out but staying together. Thomas was at my side. Eva in front, moving like a lioness. Orus and Khutulun moved by me and then pulled ahead as if they were racing each other. We slipped and stumbled and charged on.
“Are you,” Thomas said, breathing heavily, “certain. About this?”
We both carried our helms in one hand, picking our way down the slope, sometimes using pathways that cut across our route, other times ploughing right through scrub and sliding down powdery scree. After so long feeling frozen, it was exhilarating to be moving.
Why had I ordered us to join an attack that was doomed to fail?
The most cunning course of action was certainly to allow the revenants to be surrounded and killed, as Thomas had earlier said.
There was an opportunity to kill some of the engineers, the experts from Cathay, but they would most likely flee before ever we reached them, and I was exposing myself and my people to great danger. We could kill five men apiece and still we could be swarmed.
Perhaps the only reason was that I was a killer. I loved nothing more than to fight and to kill, and I had been too long without. Far too long.
“We must keep watch on our route of flight,” I said to Thomas. It was quite foolish to have such a climb back up a steep hill as our only direction to escape, but then an enemy in pursuit would have to contend with the climb, too.
I looked over my shoulder, to take note of the challenge, and there behind me I saw Stephen. He was a ways behind, stumbling and flailing his arms. Even as I watched he tripped and fell, rolling over in a cloud of dust.
Calling to Thomas, I ran back up to grab the young former monk.
“What in the name of God are you doing?” I said, shouting in his face as I yanked him to his feet.
He winced and cringed away from me.
“There were men up there,” he said, breathing hard. “It was not safe to remain.”
I looked up at the ridge. No movement.
“There is no one there, Stephen.”
He was outraged. “There is. There was. I swear it.”
“You saw them?”
He hesitated. “I heard them. Voices. Footsteps.”
The hillside above was desolate and wild but nothing moved there.
I clipped Stephen on the head with my mailed hand and shoved my helm into his grasp.
“Hold this and stay by me. You bloody fool.”
The others had pulled far ahead, though Thomas and Eva had held back so they would not be so separated from me. A riderless horse ran by me. A few steps away, a Mongol warrior dragged himself across the ground. Where he thought he was headed, I had no idea, and I ran over, drew my dagger and dispatched him.
“One cannot be too careful,” I said to Stephen, then dragged and prodded him on toward the others.
A thousand Mongols were camped nearby, mostly further down to the valley to my right, and the siege engines and specialists were directly ahead. We were at the head of the encampment and they had not bothered to build any defences.
Perhaps they thought the farmland would be protection enough. Just moments before, looking down from a height, the crisscrossing walls and ditches had seemed trivial, but now I was amongst them I could see how they would slow us down. But the walls would obstruct the Mongols too.
The trut
h was, they simply believed the Assassins to be fully cowed, and did not expect an attack.
Still, small groups of the enemy massed on our flanks but we pushed further in toward the trebuchets. Those engines continued to be worked. Another bomb arced into the air and exploded against the castle wall.
We leapt over a stone wall and stomped through the remains of a vast orchard. The Mongols had cut down every tree in Alamut Valley, for fuel, and for their siege engines, and also to ensure the Assassins’ destruction, come what may. Even if you beat us, such an act said, you will starve next year. Farmhouses and outhouses had been demolished and the stones used as ammunition for the mangonels, and the timbers for the engines themselves.
A thought unbidden flashed into my mind. I pictured the Mongols thoughtlessly demolishing Ashbury manor house and tearing up our apple trees. My home no longer, all men that knew me surely dead, but the thought was pure horror.
“Come on, Stephen,” I said, as we caught up to the others. He was panting, sucking air in and wincing. It was impossible to keep with the pace of us immortals. I felt pity for him, then annoyed that he had ignored my command to stay safe on the hillside.
“Richard,” Thomas called. “The Assassins have gone ahead. Making a run for the engines.”
I nodded. “Let us not become separated from them, we are vulnerable here.”
The shouting grew louder as the raised voices of friend and foe swelled in the valley.
“Here they come,” Eva shouted. “Cavalry east.” She pointed with her sword.
Hooves drummed the hard earth. Arrows whipped through the air, thudded into the ground, clattered against the tree stumps. I covered Stephen with my body and cursed my lack of a shield. At least I thought to grab my helm and pull it down over my head. Horsemen rode toward us, loosing more arrows.
Shoving Stephen down behind a meagre tree stump, Eva and I charged the horsemen. There were eight of them, and they did not retreat. In fact, I was sure I could hear them laughing as they rode to meet us and surround us.
I slashed the face of the nearest horse, cutting a gouge into its face as it reared in pain and terror, and grabbed the shaft of the rider’s spear and pulled him from his saddle. As I stabbed down into his guts, something smacked into the back of my helm, the sound enormous in my ears. Only an arrow, but the disorientation allowed another pair of riders to close on me. One, I smacked with the butt end of the spear I still held, but it was an awkward backhanded blow and he held on to his seat and swerved away. I kept moving, circled around the second rider and slashed at his thigh, cutting his leg and his horse’s shoulder.