The Last Emir

by S. J. A. Turney

  The Almohad lord turned and paced away from the exhausted sergeant towards this new arrival, replying in equally intemperate Arabic. Arnau stared. Death had been so close there that he could almost taste it, and it was little comfort that it had so suddenly been averted, for in saving him, Balthesar would be placing his own life in the gravest of danger.

  Behind the Templar came other men, courtiers and guards. Witnesses to the event that had to transpire here. Balthesar had come to finish what he had started on the plains below Valencia more than twenty years ago.

  He had come to kill the Lion of Alarcos.

  Chapter Twenty

  Friday, 11 June 1199

  11.55 a.m.

  Arnau, having seemingly been given an unexpected and sudden stay of execution, exhaled his terror as he watched the Lion of Alarcos pacing back towards the wall’s centre, where he had been when the young Templar had first emerged. Arnau’s eyes strayed to the huddled shape of the wazir, lying in a pool of his own blood, and the wave of regret hit him. This brave, wise and peaceful man had given up his life in an effort to save Arnau’s: a Moor sacrificing himself for a Christian. These were the times that blurred the common view for the young Templar.

  But Moor or no Moor, there was no denying the evil of the man currently facing Balthesar with a face like a demon mask. The Lion of Alarcos could be accused of evil – and would be by any churchman to be found in Aragon – purely in being a proponent and architect of the harsh Almohad caliphate, but Arnau knew now just how far the man’s wickedness went, in torturing the young Templar purely as a means to find a way to torture the older knight. Of course, Balthesar had done things in his past that had clearly verged on the wicked, or perhaps crossed well over that line, but the old knight had sought peace and atonement in the arms of the order. Perhaps now, with this long-postponed confrontation, absolution and true peace could be his.

  If he survived it.

  Balthesar looked weary and shaky as he stepped forth, sword in hand. Whatever had happened down at the gate had involved a blade, for the old knight was sporting a cut above his left eye that kept him blinking away crimson, and his green burnous was black in places with spatters and washes of blood, most of which at least was not his. But Arnau could see the wide dark patch beneath the knight’s arm, where the wound he had taken in the street fight a few days ago had once more opened up with his fresh exertions and soaked through the bandages. Moreover, the old man had finished securing the gate for the emir and immediately pelted through the palace once more, climbing so many stairs at speed to reach Arnau and the Lion. He would be tired and achy. He had never looked older to Arnau’s eyes, but then he had also never looked more determined, nor more dangerous, either.

  Of course, Abd al-Azīz was also wounded and, despite having the appearance of just a middle-aged man, Arnau reminded himself that this Moor had already had a grown son more than two decades ago when he fought Balthesar at Valencia. The Lion of Alarcos was also far from a young man, and he too would be tired from the minutes of swordplay with Arnau.

  Two Titans, then. Two men with a lifetime of experience and enmity behind them, both skilled beyond measure, both sure of themselves and fired with belief. Both weary and both wounded. Abruptly, Arnau realised that he would not be comfortable placing a wager on the outcome of this contest either way. Aware that there was every bit as much chance of the Lion walking away from this as Balthesar, Arnau gripped his blade and hauled himself up to lean against the wall, standing straight and trying to will life and energy back into his tired limbs and the deep bone-ache from his shoulders. If Balthesar fell, Arnau would need to finish this.

  The slaves that had accompanied Arnau and the wazir onto the roof were now shuffling past the other figures and disappearing back through the door and into the palace, wary of what was unfolding atop the tower. Their absence left only Arnau with the bodies of a courtier and the wazir in one corner of the tower, half a dozen other courtiers and green-clad guards standing close to the door, and the two old enemies facing one another with smouldering eyes.

  ‘I do not want to kill you,’ the Lion of Alarcos said to Balthesar, ending the strained silence.

  The old knight simply nodded. ‘That’s lucky, since I have no intention of letting you.’

  ‘Death is too good for the Qātil wariʻa. Three caliphs I have served since the day Valencia fell to the Faithful, and each one has supported a fatwa demanding your head. I have shamed myself for three decades by failing to deliver it, and even now I would rather you lived to suffer as I systematically destroy and ravage everything for which you care, and it pains me that you force me into a position where I must simply butcher you and give you peace.’

  ‘Presumptuous,’ Balthesar replied calmly. ‘Do not be too overconfident, Abd al-Azīz, for I have not spent those three decades sitting by the fire telling tales.’

  ‘Perhaps you should have done, and then we would not be here.’

  Balthesar nodded. ‘I came to Mayūrqa to find a relic, with no knowledge of your presence here, and no intent to become involved in your plots. But as the young sergeant over there led me to realise, the Lord did not bring me to these islands to find a pile of old bones, no matter how sacred, but to put an end to your attempt to destroy the last true taifa and make Mayūrqa part of your malevolent empire. I was carried here by faith, but I realise now that it was misplaced. I had faith in the hollow thing I sought, while the faith I needed was in the Lord’s plan that truly brought me to you.’

  ‘You Christians and your great plan. Allah’s plan is for the caliphate to encompass your world, to grow ever stronger as once the caliphs of Baghdad were. To bring order and true belief to those sons of the Prophet who have strayed from the word, and to teach the whole world the truth, that they may finally reach heaven and not be damned by their infidel ways.’

  Balthesar sighed. ‘This is not about God, Abd al-Azīz. I know that God brought me here, but this is about understanding and freedom. I will not watch you and your caliph do to Mayūrqa what you did to Valencia. The emir will stand yet. Now cease your talk.’

  The Lion of Alarcos did just that. Eyes burning with hate, he stepped forward from the wall, sword wavering only slightly in his right hand, broken arm hanging limp at his side. Balthesar also took a step forth, limping as the part-healed wound in his side bled fresh and the remaining stitches pulled painfully.

  The two wounded men closed and, at sword reach, began to circle like gladiators of old, eyeing one another warily. The first attack, when it came, was so fast and unexpected that Arnau missed it in a blink, catching only the aftermath.

  The Lion had lanced out with his sword and Balthesar had danced aside to avoid the blow. Arnau realised just how sharp the attack must have been to catch the wary Templar by surprise, and it had been strong and accurate enough that he had forced Balthesar to bend in such a way that it caused him a great deal of pain, likely popping the rest of his stitches.

  Though he’d missed the first blow, the young sergeant caught Balthesar’s response. Despite the pain, and gritting his teeth, the old Templar turned his stagger to the right, away from the Lion’s thrust, into a three-step dance that brought him onto the Almohad’s left side, where he swung with a speed and power that surprised Arnau, given his condition.

  The Lion struggled to deal with the blow. He had spent precious moments recovering his sword from his own lunge and had not quite enough time to turn with the knight’s advance, so that as Balthesar swung, the Almohad was forced to spin on the spot and slam his sword into the path of the oncoming blade.

  For a heartbeat, Arnau felt frustration that the knight’s attack had failed when so clearly it had almost succeeded, but while the two swords clanged together and then rasped apart as the men separated, the young sergeant realised that Balthesar had never expected to cut into his opponent. Just as the Lion had attacked in such a manner as to make the old man suffer from his existing wound, so Balthesar had done the same in turn.

&
nbsp; As the Lion had spun, managing to parry the attack, his broken arm had swung free, flailing loose, and the agony of that was clear in the Almohad’s face, for tears welled up in his eyes unbidden, and he bit hard into his lip, drawing blood which ran down into that neat, pointed beard.

  Arnau was impressed. Both men were aware of the skill of their opponent and were using whatever they could find to cause damage.

  The Lion of Alarcos danced back away from Balthesar, edging closer to Arnau as he did so, buying himself a little space to recover. Arnau watched in fascinated horror as the Almohad used his sword hand, blade still gripped in it, to help lift his broken arm, and with a supreme effort of will and no doubt more pain than the man had ever experienced, thrust the hand of the ruined limb down into his belt, anchoring the broken arm into place and preventing the Templar repeating such an awful move.

  In a further attempt to keep Balthesar from doing so, the Lion now kept his right side facing his enemy, rather than his left. Arnau momentarily considered leaping forward and trying to kill the man from behind, since they were tantalisingly close now, but he swiftly shoved the idea aside. Doing so would rob Arnau of whatever strength he had left, and if he missed and then Balthesar failed, there would be no one to finish it. Well, there would be the green-clad guards near the door, of course, but if the Lion came out triumphant, what certainty did Arnau have that those same men would not bow to the Almohad lord? That very possibility was the whole reason for this public display of swordsmanship. And that was the other reason: the Lion of Alarcos had to die honourably, from a noble strike, and not a stab in the back. It had to prove that God – or Allah in the case of those watching by the door – sanctioned the Lion’s death and therefore the emir’s rule.

  The Lion stepped out of Arnau’s reach anyway now, as he breathed deeply, suppressing his pain and concentrating on the ageing Templar, who remained still, blood dripping from his side and dotting the floor beneath him.

  Arnau half expected words then, with the two men facing off and unmoving; half expected chiding and the slinging of barbed insults. Instead all that happened was a tense and nervous silence as the two men sized one another up.

  This time Balthesar struck first, but only by a fraction of a heartbeat, as the Lion also attacked hard. The old knight’s sword had swung back slightly, held low, so gently and slowly that Arnau had not noticed him doing it, and it therefore came as something of a shock when the Templar’s arm picked up speed exponentially as it swung back and over while he took two sharp steps forward, sword coming down now in an overarm swing. The Lion had begun to move even before the knight’s first step, dipping to his right to keep his good side to Balthesar, blade coming out in a swipe to the side as he went.

  The two men clashed, trading those blows so swiftly and so fiercely that the young sergeant almost missed them again. Balthesar’s overarm chop cleaved only air as the Lion had danced aside, and the Almohad’s swipe did connect with the back of the Templar’s mail shirt as he passed, but robbed of so much speed and power that it barely rippled the rings, let alone caused any damage.

  This time there was no silent perusal as the two men eyed each other. As the Moor and the knight both spun to face one another again they reacted in a trice, attacking savagely. Arnau watched, his heart in his throat as two men of advanced years fought with more speed and ferocity than the young sergeant had seen even in the youngest of warriors.

  The two men’s swords clanged and clashed again and again as they swung and thrust, hacked and sliced, dancing this way and that, turning a slow, deadly circle, sometimes coming close to one parapet with the Lion keeping a wary eye on the drop behind him, sometimes Balthesar noting the closeness of the edge as he retreated along it. All the time, the Lion took advantage of the Templar’s side wound, forcing him to bend this way and that with each strike so that the old knight suffered as much pain and discomfort as possible as the blood continued to leak from the reopened wound, soaking the green burnous. And with every attack, the old Templar used the Almohad’s broken arm to the best effect, keeping to his left side as much as possible and forcing the Moor into positions where he would knock his shattered arm on the stonework, causing him to whimper in pain.

  It was not a pleasant contest of arms, both men suffering endlessly, yet on and on it went, strike after strike, so fast and furious that Arnau found himself constantly expecting the combatants to collapse to the floor, exhausted.

  Suddenly, as the Lion swung once more in the press – a slash that rose as it swung, threatening to cut up beneath the mail shirt’s hem in a fatal blow – Balthesar responded with a downward blow, diverting the attack, and the two blades grated and scraped along one another until the cross guards of both swords met and locked, their wielders so close now that their breath steamed in one another’s face. The combatants grimaced and snarled at each other across the locked weapons. The old Templar took his advantage then, his other hand coming up to add its grip to his sword, forcing the Almohad’s blade back, the strength of two hands against one. But just as Arnau was anticipating a final blow with the Templar’s sword cleaving his enemy’s face, the Lion lashed out with a booted foot, catching Balthesar below the knee.

  Knocked off balance, the old knight fell back, his sword scraping free, and the Lion was on the offensive now, his blade swinging hard, coming down with such power that the observing sergeant imagined it cleaving even the flagged floor in half. Despite the fact that Balthesar was almost on his knees now, staggering to stay upright after the almost crippling blow to his leg, he managed to lift his sword, one hand on the hilt, the other near the tip, and catch the enemy chop a foot above his head. Expertly, the old knight, as soon as the blades met, tipped his own point down and removed his left hand so that the Lion’s sword skittered away harmlessly.

  The Almohad had put such momentum into what he had clearly hoped to be a killing blow that he could not quite arrest his movement, and he staggered forward and down as his sword smashed into the floor and scraped across the stone. Balthesar almost finished it there, as his sword came round swiftly in a hard slash and slammed into the Lion’s mailed back. It had to be an agonising blow and likely broke several ribs, but the Almohad was not done, for even as he fell, he was turning. As he cried out in pain at the knight’s blow, so his own sword came up and over in a powerful arc, slamming down into Balthesar’s mailed arm. It was a miracle that the attack did not break the old knight’s sword arm, for the Templar by pure good fortune had his arm at just such an angle that the Lion’s blade glanced off the mail and bounced down the chain sleeve, bruising and causing pain and numbness, but robbed of the strength to shatter bone.

  The two men staggered away from one another. They were almost spent now, and Arnau could see it. Both men were exhausted beyond reason, and both were suffering. As the Lion of Alarcos straightened, he bellowed in pain and shook for a moment, his ribs causing him agony. Balthesar rose and tried to lift his sword, but his arm was too badly beaten. With a grunt of pain, the old knight swapped his sword to his left hand and lifted it to face the raised blade of the Moor. Arnau noted nervously that the tip of the old knight’s sword dipped several times, and swayed even when raised. Not only was Balthesar weary, but his left hand simply did not have the strength of his right. He would be slower, weaker, and much less effective with that arm.

  Yet as he two struck once more, it was clear that he was still on even terms with his enemy, for the Lion could not lunge or chop without crying out in agony, his broken ribs sending sharp pain coursing through him with every strong movement. The Almohad was failing, perhaps faster than Balthesar now, and Arnau felt a surge of hope at that realisation. Even as the young sergeant realised this, the Lion also knew he had little time and strength and must finish it fast. With a roar, the Almohad launched a deadly attack. His cry of Allāhu akbar echoed out from the rooftop as the Lion swung his blade this way and that: left to right, right to left, left to right, wincing with each swipe as he advanced, Balthesar ba
cking away from the vicious assault, trying to parry the blows, but with a weak and exhausted off-hand so that his sword was simply batted aside with ease at each sweep.

  Arnau watched in shock, his momentary elation shattered at the very real probability that Balthesar was about to die, for he was giving ground, unable to stop the attack, and almost back against the parapet with its huge drop.

  When the next thing happened, Arnau stared in astonishment. He only realised as the final conflict unfolded that Balthesar had been giving the Lion this struggle. He had not fought to stop the attack, simply slipping his blade weakly in the way in order to save what strength he had left, giving ground deliberately in order to gain just the right position.

  Snarling, the Lion of Alarcos, Abu Rāshid Abd al-Azīz ibn al-Ḥasan, had his Templar opponent at the parapet and swung down in a killing blow.

  But Balthesar was not there. As soon as the Templar’s heel had touched the stone of the surrounding battlements, he’d dropped and ducked forward. The Almohad lord, unable to stop his momentum, fell against the parapet. For a brief moment it looked as though he would keep going, toppling out into the air, but his centre of gravity was just low enough to keep him on the rooftop. He was spent, though, and had nowhere to go, face down over the battlements.

  Arnau watched Balthesar rise from his crouch like the wrath of God, sword coming up, held in both hands like an executioner. The Lion turned, face white, desperate, and lifted his own blade weakly in a last effort to save himself.

  Balthesar’s blade struck the Lion’s sword arm midway between wrist and elbow. Had the arm been held low the mail might have stopped it, but with the arm raised as it was, the mail sleeve had fallen back and the old Templar’s sword struck only light cotton and flesh. Arnau watched, wide eyed, as the Lion’s hand and forearm fell away, still clutching the sword, blood jetting from the severed arm.