by Dan Davis
“Are they there to keep us in?” Thomas asked. “Or are they preparing to assault the walls?”
There were bundles of arrows being stacked with each group of ten Mongols. I could see no ladders or ropes but that did not mean they were not there.
“Either way, we must attack them now,” I said. “Break through and flee before we are trapped.”
Thomas looked at me as if I was mad. “Break through? How, Richard?”
In truth, I had no idea. “We must break through, and so we shall do it.” I clapped him on his back. We ran down to the others at the gate, as the castle walls boomed from the impact of further strikes. Would the walls crumble in a day? Would the Mongols even wait, or would they attempt to scale the walls directly?
“We have a fight on our hands,” I said. “A rare fight. Listen, we will go through the gate and we will stay together. Do you all hear me? We will stay together. Not only do we have to cut our way through the men outside, we must fight off all pursuit, and avoid or slaughter any patrols we meet, for days on end. Our provisions will be only what we can carry, and what we can take from our enemies. The passes over the peaks cannot be traversed by horses, and so we will be footsore for a long while. Then when we reach the foothills, we shall take the horses of the Mongols, and ride for Syria.”
They stared at me, apprehensive and unsure.
“Take heart. We get to show God what we are made of today, my friends. Are your swords sharp? Straps tightened? Make your final preparations, and I shall see what assistance we will receive.”
They turned to go over their equipment. I was most concerned with Stephen and Abdullah, who were neither warriors nor immortals. If Stephen died, it would make no difference but I needed Abdullah to get into Baghdad. They each had a helm to protect their head but no one would provide mail for a useless scholar. I could protect Abdullah from anyone who attacked with swords and even spears but we were all at terrible risk from those wicked Mongol bows.
“We need shields,” I said to the Assassins who were helping to equip me for the breakout. “Bring us shields, enough for each of us.” Of course, their home was under attack and they were understandably distracted, so I went to find Hassan or anyone senior enough who could order their men to find shields for my people.
The castle was in subdued chaos. Men ran across the courtyards and along the walls, carrying bundles of javelins. Most wore their mail, and many already had their conical helms.
A group of captains stood around Hassan up on the wall by the northwest tower, protected from the trebuchet by the mass of the tower itself. I pushed through the mass of men and called for Hassan. Before I could reach him, Jalal appeared and cut me off.
“Richard, listen. This is what will now happen. My men will leave first by the south gate. We will engage the enemy. You will break through, and my lord Hassan will go with you.”
I had questions that I wished to ask. What if we all joined together and routed the enemy on the south slope, perhaps we might lead a mass breakout from the castle and perhaps hundreds could escape into the hills. I wanted the immortals to come with me, to protect us on the road and to be used against Hulegu and William, so why not send the savage immortals, or even better, just the ordinary mortal fedayin?
“What about the immortals that you made with your blood, Jalal? Are they to stay?”
“They will replicate their success and charge the engineers. This may prolong our siege but either way should draw in the main forces to the front, hindering pursuit of you and Hassan, while my men tie down forces at the rear.”
It was the best chance for me to escape, so I asked no more questions but one. “Can you find shields for my men?”
Time passes strangely in such moments. Did it take half a day to finish the preparations or was it almost an instant, as it seemed? Orders were shouted, advice and reminders passed along between us. My Arabic was very good but I found that I could understand not one word of the men around me, wound as tightly as they were. The stones kept pounding the wall on the other side of the castle and we stayed tight to the internal walls that we prayed would protect us from more overshooting stones or debris.
“What is taking so long?” I shouted to Jalal. “We must go, now.”
“Not until my lord is here.”
I threw down most of my gear and went hunting for the lord of the castle. I found him standing on the front wall, alone and exposed like a madman. Running to him, I saw what he looked at beyond the wall. The savage revenants that he had made using Jalal’s blood, were charging the enemy. If the plan truly had been to attack the trebuchets then it was doomed to failure, as the machines were far back from the front lines. Hundreds of men blocked their path. The revenants were outnumbered ten to one, if not more.
Still, the revenants cut through the Mongols with ease. I was strangely proud, even though I had not contributed to their skills and had never wanted them created with my blood once removed. Yet the damned revenants did feel like my grandchildren, in a way, and I could at least appreciate their work. The first fifty Mongols were killed, and the enemy sent another fifty or a hundred forward. Arrows filled the air and some of the vampire assassins fell. The Mongols clustered around the twenty or so revenants who remained fighting.
“We must go,” I said to Hassan. “Make their sacrifice meaningful.”
He shook me off, turned, and shouted orders at his men inside the castle. Those orders were relayed, and the two mangonels on the walls slammed into action moments apart, and their projectiles hurtled out over the combat.
Bright fire erupted. Both objects smashed into the massed, disorganised group of Mongols and burst into flames. The roar of the fire reached me and I saw men dancing in the fire. The sound of screams came next.
“By God,” I said. “Is that naphtha?”
He ignored me and shouted more orders down into the yard below. The front gates were opened and the fedayin marched out. Hassan was sending his troops out to take the fight to the Mongols rather than wait to be overrun.
The mangonels launched again, the fire bursting close to the immortals, surely engulfing and killing some of them, too.
“Hassan,” I shouted. “I am leaving, now. You are coming with me.”
He nodded, tearing his eyes away from the sight of his men dying in the flames. Bowstrings hummed as the assassin archers loosed a volley before advancing.
We fled back through the castle, his remaining men nodding to Hassan or offering a prayer or some other words. It was the end of their lives, their families, of their entire world. Their hopes for vengeance would be kept alive in Hassan, while they would achieve great holiness through their deaths, and spend eternity in Heaven with all the rewards that were due to them. Some were grim, others had the mad look that some men are filled with when they feel touched by God and have gone beyond the fear of death. I could only imagine what would happen to the women and children hiding deep within the castle. The best they could hope for would be a lifetime of slavery.
“Jalal,” I shouted when we drew near. “He is here. Go, now.”
Jalal’s immortals were out of the gate like wolves after a deer. Sleek, swift despite their armour, they slipped through the gate and were gone.
“How long should we wait?” Thomas asked.
I pushed to the front, shoved Hassan at Thomas for him to take care of, and grabbed Abdullah. “You stay by my side at all times. Leave my side and die, understand?” He swallowed and nodded. The man shook all over like a newborn lamb.
Eva had Stephen by the upper arm, and he clutched his shield to his chest.
“We go now,” I said to Thomas. “Orus, Khutulun. Go.” I nodded out the gate and they slipped out. One by one I ordered my people out and counted them all to be sure no one was left behind.
Once clear of the protection of the castle, wind howled down from the peaks and icy dust whipped into my face. Ahead, Jalal and his men were cutting through the enemy and their shouts and clashing blades rang in the
bitter air. I pulled on my helm, grabbed my shield and held it ready, placing Abdullah behind and on the flank opposite the enemy. Arrows flew but not toward us, yet. Ahead, my people stomped across the hilltop, heading across the enemy front at an oblique angle so we could get by them and off into the passes and secret ways through the mountains.
Hassan, Jalal, and his men knew them, and so I prayed to God that he would spare at least one of those Saracens so that we might find our way clear of the heathen Mongols.
We made good progress and the fighting was clear of us. A few arrows clattered on the stones around us but it seemed Jalal’s men were keeping the enemy well occupied.
Then I heard—or rather, felt—the thing I dreaded most. A drumming on the hard ground, growing stronger.
“Cavalry!” I shouted, in French, English, Arabic. “Horsemen! Riders!”
I stopped to get a better look and saw a group of twenty horsemen charging into the flank of Jalal’s men. They were lancers, on armoured horses. Madness that the Mongols had brought them up the mountainside for a castle assault. But the Mongols were nothing if not full of surprises. The Assassins were run over, speared, and broken up.
How I wished I had squires. Even one, who could pass me a spear or a polearm of some sort. Together with two squires, we could face a mounted attack with our flanks protected.
“Run to our people,” I shouted at Abdullah and pushed him ahead while I followed, keeping an eye on the horsemen. “Come together,” I shouted at the others. Stopping, I slung my shield and removed my helm. “Come together,” I roared again.
Some of the horsemen turned to face our direction. One gestured at me with his bloodied lance.
Up ahead, my people were gathering in a group. The ones up ahead filing back, the ones nearest to me looking back for instruction.
“Keep moving,” I shouted as I hurried to them. “Keep moving but stay together.”
I reached them and Thomas turned his helmeted head to me. “By God, Richard. What I would not give for a horse.”
I laughed, clapped him on the back and jammed my helm back on my head.
“On, on,” I called, harrying them like a dog herding a flock. I searched in vain for a place where we could make a stand if we needed to.
The hillside curved away in all directions, and there were boulders and large stones, but nothing that would interrupt a cavalry charge.
“Richard!” Eva shouted from ahead. The ground thundered as the horsemen moved toward us.
I threw Abdullah at Hassan. “Keep him alive,” I said.
Eva pushed Stephen at him too. “And look out for Stephen,” she said. Eva was a warrior but she still had a woman’s heart, filled with compassion for useless boys like Stephen, a weak English monk who was nothing more than a liability.
“Two lines,” I shouted. “Thomas, Eva, you stay in front of Hassan. Work together. Orus, Khutulun, with me, understand? With me.”
Orus looked wild, eyes bulging and filled with the madness for blood, and the lust for glory of combat, of death. Khutulun was calm as a mountain lake, holding a spear in one hand and her wicked curved blade in the other focused on the advancing cavalry.
Putting distance between my first and second lines, I edged forward, checking that my two Mongol rebels stayed with me. Six horsemen, their lances low, came on. Behind them, two more circled to my left so that they could take us in the flank. I would have to let Eva and Thomas take care of them.
The Mongols had no need to thunder at us in an almighty charge. Their horses were heavy, and horse and rider were weighed down with armour. So high in the mountains, the air was thin and the horses laboured mightily. I considered attempting to force them to chase me down and thus exhaust them. But I put that thought aside. They were too many, and even if I could out-pace the horses, it would take too long.
“Come on,” I shouted. And I ran at the nearest rider. His armour was not mail but a kind of coat of plates, dozens or hundreds of small rectangular iron pieces covered his body and his legs to the knees. The horse had armour over its face and neck. He swerved to spear me but I was faster than he could have expected and I changed direction, ducked under his horse’s nose and leapt up on the other side. My first thrust glanced off the armour covering his legs, jarring my arm. I swung my shield up and smacked it into him, hard, but he stayed in the saddle and swerved on, heading for Eva behind me.
Orus brought a horse down, somehow. Khutulun dragged a Mongol from his saddle.
I was letting myself down.
Another rider was almost on me. This one had no lance but held a single-edged curved sword raised in one hand while he shouted some barbarian scream at me. He was armoured like the others. Where were they weak? His helm had no protection over his face. His raised arm showed a very large gap in the armoured plates. His hands had no protection, not even gloves.
Charging at him, I twisted and cut across his front to his left side and swung a tight cut at the hand that held the reins, parried the blow that he aimed at my head and slipped the point of my sword up into a gap between his ribs. My blade caught, twisted between two ribs. I grabbed my sword with both hands and pulled. He screamed in anger and pain as he tumbled from his saddle and smacked hard into the ice-hard ground, his felt-booted left foot caught in the stirrup. Before I could finish him off, he was dragged away by his horse leaping ahead.
Eva and Thomas had brought down the rider I let through and Eva stabbed at him on the ground. Two riders circled Khutulun, shouting at her as they cut at her with their blades. I ran at the nearest one, crunching across the hilltop with my breathing loud inside my helmet. The Mongol faced away from me, all focus on Khutulun who darted and slipped from their attacks. From behind him, I slipped my blade between the saddle and the leg protection from his long coat of plates, slicing a vicious, deep gash along the back of his thigh. He kicked his horse away from me automatically, leaving Khutulun and I to kill the other.
So quickly, the tide had been turned. We outnumbered them now, and we killed them all but one, who rode away, bleeding heavily.
Jalal’s immortals had been hit hard, and half of them had been killed.
But their attack had been so powerful that the Mongols had retreated. Pulled back down the hill.
I rallied everyone to me, and we continued on with our escape. Jalal’s surviving men were almost all wounded in some way but I ordered them to cover our flanks and the rear, while Jalal and Hassan took the lead to guide us through the hidden ways.
We were free.
But we were far from safe.
It was hard, those first few days. Very hard. There were Mongols everywhere, and even with the masters of stealth guiding us through their homeland, we had to spend a lot of time hiding, huddled together, shivering and waiting for enemy scouts to pass by. We were spotted many times. Sometimes, they must have decided that a few fugitives far across a valley or gorge were simply not worth pursuing. Other times we had Mongols hunting us through the hills.
Jalal’s immortals, hungry and damaged though they were, saved us through laying ambushes for our pursuers, and by leading them away down blind gorges while the fedayin climbed up and out and met back up with us. One time, three men waited behind to spring an ambush. We heard the fighting. Despite Eva cursing me for my foolishness and selfishness, I crept back close enough to see the remains of my immortals being hacked to pieces by the Mongol survivors.
After such heroic actions, the Jalal’s immortal fedayin were down to two men. Black-eyed killers named Radi and Raka, dangerous and violent even before the disaster that had befallen them. Hassan, Jalal, Radi and Raka had lost their home and their families, including women and children, had been slaughtered or taken as prisoners while they fled in the faint hope of exacting future revenge on those responsible. It was a wonder that they did not break entirely but still I watched them all closely, lest they turn on us Christians.
My chief fear was that they would be seized by their lust and attempt to take Eva in the
night but it was not long before I was disabused of that notion. Whatever their natural inclination may have been, the harshness of the journey turned each of us into hunched, shuffling old men who lusted only after warmth, bread, and blood.
Still, I endeavoured always to sleep with one eye open.
It was hundreds of miles to Baghdad, away to the southwest. Unimpeded and with enough supplies, we could have walked it in less than a month. But we could not walk straight there. Our route crisscrossed through the mountains and hills and later took us down from the highlands onto the vast Persian plateau before descending to the green plains of ancient Babylonia. First, we went northwest toward Armenia, driven away from Persia by the huge numbers of Mongols travelling in groups from place to place. They were everywhere. Soon, we discovered that they were many even in the north. We knew that Armenia and Georgia were in a state of formal submission but it was clear that the Mongols were a constant presence in those Christian lands, with horsemen carrying messages and even wagons carrying supplies through the winter. We spent many hours lying hidden on the bitter, hard ground in shallow depressions while we waited for groups of riders to pass.
If it had not been for the contacts that Hassan had in various small and scattered communities, we would certainly have perished. As it was, we barely made it. The journey was harder than any before, though it was far shorter in distance and in time than our previous crossings of central Asia.
It was not long before I had entirely forgotten what it was to be warm. My belly ached from hunger so severe that it was agony on occasion and many of us, myself included, woke ourselves in the darkness with involuntary wailing. We grew thin. The people who kept us for a night or more were themselves suffering in hunger. But even up on the plateau, it was not so cold as up in the mountains and so we could at least thaw ourselves a little.
One night, in a sheltered valley, we huddled in an outbuilding. The farmer and his extended family were asleep inside, the women and girls unseen by us. The trees of their orchard had been cut down and carted off by a band of Turkomen soldiers while the family hid in the hills. While the father was sympathetic and treated Hassan with respect, he could offer us nothing but a draughty roof where his sheep used to live. During the night, a hushed argument amongst Jalal’s two surviving fedayin welled up and broke out. Hassan and Jalal subdued Radi and Raka, physically pinning them until they relented, but the bitterness between the Assassins remained for days. When we bartered for strips of dried goat two days later, Radi and Raka were not allowed to eat so much as a bite.