Mamluk

by J. K. Swift

  Badru Hashim, the Northman, strolled to just within crossbow range and stopped. He likely knew that it would take a lucky shot from a volley of at least fifty bolts to hit him. He also knew no army under siege would waste fifty bolts to possibly bring down one man. Foulques caught himself calculating distances and wind direction before he took a deep breath and flexed the tremor in his hands away.

  It had been eight years since he had seen Badru Hashim in person. Every now and then he would hear of something he and his Mamluks had done. Mostly attacks on vessels at sea, but in the last couple of years, they had begun to terrorize caravans on land and even conduct raids on small villages. And it did not matter whether the owners were Christian, Jewish, Muslim, or Pagan. Their coin was all good, and he was afraid of no one. But now, here he stood fighting in the front lines for the Sultan of Egypt.

  Foulques closed his eyes and scrubbed at the great tangles of hair on his head with both hands. If Qalawun’s son had managed to call even men like the Northman to his banner, perhaps he was a far better leader than they had all given him credit for. If that were true, than this was going to be a much longer siege than Foulques had thought.

  The drumming stopped after one last thunderous boom and the host of Mamluk soldiers went suddenly and eerily quiet. Badru Hashim raised his arms and called out to the walls of Acre in a low, clear voice that shook Foulques to the core far more than any catapult barrage ever had.

  “I am Badru Hashim. I come here to fight for my sultan, to honor Allah and His messenger, Mohammed, the greatest of all prophets. Is there a man amongst this stable of sheep I stand before, who dares to defend your false god?”

  The wall erupted into a chorus of shouts and insults. Men drew their swords and threw rocks that had no hope of reaching the Mamluk. Foulques heard a Hospitaller knight call out to the marshal, “Sir! I would have your permission to go down there and skewer this piece of desert shit.”

  “No one is going to take him up on this challenge,” Marshal Clermont called back. “We will not play into their hands.”

  He spoke with confidence and the authority of someone who knew exactly what he was doing. But Foulques watched his face as he talked the man down, and he saw something there he did not like: a furrow of the brow, a grinding of the jaw, and an inability to remove his gaze from the giant Mamluk before them.

  Another cheer went up, but this time, it came from the very wall Foulques stood upon. He leaned forward and looked down to where others were pointing. A man armed with sword and shield had emerged from one of the small sally ports in the wall below, and he was donned in the blood-red battle tunic of a Hospitaller knight.

  Both Foulques and Marshal Clermont realized who it was at the same time. “Connor! Get your arse back inside!” the marshal called out, but his words were drowned out by the roars of encouragement raining down on the young knight from above. Connor turned and raised his sword to his unhelmeted forehead in a salute to the crowd. They responded with a fervor that made Foulques want to clasp his hands over his ears.

  Foulques stared at Connor, willing the young man to look into his eyes so he could somehow communicate to him the folly of what he was about to do. But Connor was too enamored by the cheers of the crowd to acknowledge one single face. With a final wave and bow, he spun on his heel and marched toward glory.

  “Fool!” Marshal Clermont said. “What does he think he is doing?”

  Foulques saw a couple of sergeants cast questioning glances toward the marshal. He understood their confusion. Personal challenges were nothing new when it came to sieges. It was not unusual to pass the time between assaults on the wall with challenges where men would meet in single combat while the two opposing armies looked on. Winning one of these contests was a surefire way to increase morale amongst one’s comrades.

  Badru Hashim walked out to meet his challenger. When they were twenty yards away from one another, they stopped walking. Connor announced himself at the top of his lungs.

  “Sir Connor Westhill accepts the opportunity to spit in the face of your sultan and to assist you in recognizing the divinity of our Lord Jesus Christ. And by His guiding light, I swear, it shall be the last thing you do on this earth!”

  Everyone on the wall erupted in cheers once again. Badru Hashim had a buckler on one arm and he said something as he slowly drew his scimitar but the two men were too far away for Foulques to hear what he said. He could imagine it was something calm, unnerving.

  “Close on him, boy,” Marshal Clermont mumbled, and as though he had heard his mentor, Connor leapt into action. He slid in with a straight thrust followed by a high attack and then another. Badru parried with his buckler and caught Connor’s second swing in a bind with his own sword. The men pushed each other away and began circling to the left. They clashed again, and Connor attempted to snake his blade around the Mamluk’s scimitar and ride it into his throat. But the Northman was able to redirect the Hospitaller’s weapon at the last moment with his buckler and disentangle himself from the bind.

  The men on the walls of Acre shouted their support, screaming so loud it set Foulques’s hair on end. Foulques was surprised at Connor’s skill. He was a smooth, languid fighter with a technical knowledge one can only acquire by training from a very young age. Too clearly he remembered his own battle with the Northman, and thus far the young knight was acquitting himself better than Foulques had. Connor was about the same age Foulques had been when he and Badru had fought on the docks of Gibelet. The “Weasel” had done well with this one, he grudgingly admitted to himself.

  The two combatants came together again, shields clashing, swords crossing, separating, and cutting. Badru launched a flurry of blows that Connor turned to the side or managed to dance away from. Onlookers from both sides shouted their approval.

  “Good job, boy,” Foulques could not help but say aloud. He was strong, fast, young. Maybe, just maybe…

  Foulques turned to Marshal Clermont to see if he was thinking the same thing. The old knight was already looking at him. Clermont closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them he squinted away the remnants of tears and surrendered his body weight to the castle wall. He stared out toward the contest taking place, but Foulques felt he was focused elsewhere.

  There was a break in the action and Connor took the opportunity to raise his sword in the direction of Acre in a premature celebration of victory. The men lining the walls went crazy and let out a cacophony of war shouts to lend their support.

  At the height of the cheers, Badru sheathed his scimitar. A cold chill ate its way down Foulques’s spine. Connor looked on as Badru drew his khanjar, the wickedly curved knife that is the most sacred weapon of a Mamluk warrior. It is the first weapon he is trained to use, and if given the choice, the last one he would hold in this life. But the way he walked toward Connor, Foulques knew Badru was in no danger of losing his life this day. He knew that walk.

  Thus began the humiliation of a Knight of the Hospital of Jerusalem. Connor looked confused at first, when the Mamluk gave up his sword for a much shorter weapon. Perhaps he took it for a suicide wish, one that he was fine with granting. He sent a powerful thrust at Badru’s massive chest, one that would be impossible to turn aside with a knife. Instead, Badru twisted his torso and let the blade sail past, then brought his buckler around from the side smashing it across Connor’s face. He fell to the ground and Badru let him get up. When he was set, Badru stepped forward and brought his buckler across the other side of Connor’s face. He allowed him to get up again. For the next two minutes Badru fought Connor using only his buckler and superior body position. He occasionally employed his khanjar to bind Connor’s sword near its hilt, but he never followed through with a cut of any kind, and this was obvious to all onlookers. It was a masterful demonstration. One that Foulques found nearly impossible to watch at times.

  When Foulques caught himself looking away, he would steel his nerves and force his eyes back to the front. Many men stopped watching the fight a
fter Badru broke Connor’s shield arm with his buckler. But Foulques kept his gaze locked on the combatants, if you could still call them that, for the entirety of the fight. Connor deserved that much, and more.

  Connor managed to rise a couple more times, but finally, his body could no longer support the weight of his armor, and down he stayed. The Northman waited a few moments to be sure, then he knelt over him and began pummeling his head again and again with his buckler.

  Foulques saw one of the Schwyzers vomit over the side of the wall. He was one of the brave ones who was still watching.

  This had to stop. He turned toward the tower’s stairway.

  “Where do you think you are going?” Marshal Clermont said, blocking his path.

  “I have something to do,” Foulques said. “Something I should have done a long time ago.

  “I forbid it.”

  “You have no say in this.” Foulques tried to move around the marshal, but Clermont reached out his hand and grabbed him firmly by the shoulder.

  “He has taken something from all of us today. I will not let him take you, as well.” He looked down at his hands and lowered his voice. “You are not ready, Foulques.” He gestured to the wall. “Come. We owe a brother our presence. That will have to be enough. For now, it is all we can offer.”

  Foulques and Marshal Clermont turned back to the grisly scene in the distance. They stood shoulder to shoulder and watched as Badru Hashim loomed over the lifeless body of Sir Connor Westhill.

  The Northman walked a few paces away and bent down to retrieve something from the ground. When he stood, he held a scabbarded sword in his hand, but it was no scimitar. Its blade was straight and the sunlight gleamed along its length when the Mamluk pulled it from its sheath. He tossed the sheath to the ground and walked back to Connor, flicking the blade this way and that, displaying its balance and beauty for all to admire.

  He need not have. For even at this distance, Foulques could tell from its pivot point that the blade was his. The one he had lost to the Northman eight years ago. The one given to Foulques by his uncle on the day he was knighted.

  When the Northman used the sword to sever the head from Connor’s corpse, Foulques felt the blow in his soul. His legs buckled and he had to catch himself on the wall. He still might have fallen if the marshal’s hand did not reach out to grip him by the shoulder.

  Wordlessly, the two Hospitallers watched Badru Hashim carry Connor’s head over to the horses walking in their endless circle. He tied it onto the saddle of a fine black stallion and then walked away without a backward glance. Within seconds, Badru Hashim disappeared into a roiling sea of Saracens that stretched across the horizon, touching the ends of the world.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The stench of death hung heavy in the air as Badru approached the ring of horses still walking their endless circle. Clouds of flies feasted on the severed heads draped over the animals’ backs, with the larger flies taking frequent breaks to sample horse flesh instead. The once-proud destriers could do little to discourage them, for each one’s tail was tied to the horse’s head in the rear, leaving them defenseless from the assault of the flies. So bad was the smell, and volume of insects, that the Mamluk soldiers standing guard had retreated a hundred paces away. Only one man stood nearby. He had a leather bull whip, which he twirled overhead every few minutes and unleashed its fury on the back of some unfortunate horse to keep the circle in motion.

  This had gone on for the better part of two days and Badru could no longer stand by and watch. The horses had been the sultan’s contribution to Badru’s plan of luring the Franks out from their defenses to conduct an assault on the siege engines. Badru had suggested piling the heads of the Christians in a mound on the ground somewhere they could be seen from every section of the wall. A sight that would greet them from the east with every sunrise. The horses had never played a part in Badru’s scheme.

  As he crossed the open ground toward the whip man, one of the horses let out a strangled whinny and stumbled. Her front legs gave out but her back ones did not, leaving her in a prostrated position. The circle faltered, the leather cracked through the air, but the horse simply accepted the beating. She was too tired to rise.

  Badru caught the man’s wrist before he could snap it again.

  The soldier turned on him, furious that someone had the gall to interrupt his work.

  “By Allah, I will—”

  “You will what?” Badru said, stretching the man’s arm straight up in the air as far as it would go, forcing him onto the tips of his toes. When he realized who it was who held him, he wisely held his tongue. It was now well-known that the sultan had a new head emir, the man who had killed Emir Turuntay in ritual combat.

  Badru pulled the whip from the guard’s hand, threw it to the ground, and shoved the man in the opposite direction.

  “If you ever strike a horse with a bull whip again, I will educate you in its proper use until you beg me for death. Do you understand?” He glanced down at the leather on the rocky ground and the thought of using it right then and there on the man was very hard to resist. He took a breath.

  “I am sorry, Emir. I did not know it was you. I was only following Emir Lajin’s orders to keep the beasts moving.”

  “For how long?”

  “Until they drop. Then we are to section them up and launch their parts into the city with the catapults.”

  Badru closed his eyes and took another breath. If the man had any sense he would be gone when he opened them. He was still there, rooted to the spot.

  “These are your new orders,” Badru said. “You will cut the rotting heads from the horses’ backs. Then, go to those soldiers over there.” Badru pointed at the guards in the distance. He kept his hand pointed in their direction until they began to shift their feet and became fully aware of his attention. “They will help you bring water to the horses where they stand. Do not give them too much! Then lead them to shade, untie them from one another, and let them drink again. This time as much as they want.”

  “But, Emir Lajin will have my head.”

  Badru stepped in close and looked down at the soldier. “You are no longer his man. Do you understand? You tell him Badru Hashim has claimed you as his own. He will know what that means, and if he does not like it, he knows where to find me. Now, go. Never mention Lajin’s name again. He is dead to you. Do you understand?”

  The soldier nodded and began to back away. “Yes, My Emir.”

  “Now go! You have thirty minutes to complete your task.”

  The man turned and began to run toward the soldiers as Badru looked on.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  During the second week of the siege, Grand Master Villiers asked Foulques to tour the wall and speak with the various commanders to get a reasonable estimate of the defenders’ strength for each section. The commanders had all agreed that the City Watch would be used to bolster forces where needed as the siege wore on. His last stop was the English line, under command of Sir Grandison. Grandison, of course, made him feel welcome, and he found himself staying longer than he should have.

  “You hear that?” Grandison asked.

  Foulques tilted his head. He heard nothing, but then realized that was the point. “The catapults have stopped,” he said. “They are massing for another attack.”

  Grandison stepped into an opening and looked out over the field. “I see them setting up, but you still have enough time to get back to your men.”

  “If it is all the same to you,” Foulques said, “I would just as well stay here.”

  “Need me to protect you, do you?” Grandison grinned.

  “Something like that,” Foulques said. He could not put his finger on it, but something about the old warrior made it easy to remain in his company.

  “I suspect it is not the Mohammedans you seek protection from. I have seen how your superiors look at you. You are not supposed to be here, in the city, are you?”

  Foulques shook his head. “Ev
en though it is where I belong.”

  “Well, I am more than happy to fight at your side. Welcome to my little piece of England. Might as well give the old legs a rest since it will be some time before those camel riders get their arses over here.” He held his sword out of the way with one hand, pressed his back up against the wall, and unceremoniously slid down it to finish up in a sitting position with his legs stretched straight out in front. “Ah, much better.”

  Foulques cocked his head and thought, why not? Seconds later, he too sat atop the wall looking out over the city. It looked quiet, peaceful even. The calm before the storm.

  Grandison let out a sigh. “I have heard it said, over and over, that the fighting is the easy part, and it is the waiting that kills men.”

  “I still feel very much alive,” Foulques said.

  Grandison nodded in agreement. “I have always liked the moments before a big battle. It illuminates one’s life with a certain perspective.”

  “I heard talk that King Edward is sending reinforcements. Is that true?”

  Grandison turned his head slowly. Foulques noticed a change in his eyes, like someone had extinguished a tiny candle in each one.

  “He would like nothing more. I can tell you that much.”

  “I suspected so,” Foulques said. “Raising an army is never as straight-forward as one might think.”

  “It is not his army that has failed him. It is his heart.” His voice broke and he looked away. “I received word two days ago that Eleanor has died of a fever.”