William jumped from his horse, realizing that elevation brought no advantage against the Cult. He pulled a long knife from his belt and held it with the blade pointing to the rear. Then he charged into the melee with Engrin’s sword extended.
At once he faced a dark blue warrior, his movement a blur, his blue cloak billowing behind him. As the cultist closed on him, William saw armour about his torso, covering shoulders and waist. The cultist’s dragon mask leered at him as the Rassis danced over bodies sprawled face-down in the sand. He skipped over one more corpse before he landed and then lunged with a long sword.
As the point darted towards him, William drew up his long knife from the left, parrying the thrust. The blade’s momentum swerved it to William’s right, and then William leapt, swinging Engrin’s steel from over his head down towards the mask. The blade split the mask in two and then drew a spray of blood as it cleaved through the skull. The warrior slumped and William stumbled, losing his grip on his sword.
As he pushed himself up, another Rassis lunged. The long sword came at William and he parried again with the knife, only to be punched in the face by a gloved fist. He reeled back seeing nothing but stars, feeling the cutting of air as a sword came down. He rolled, but the blade sank into his left hand. He screamed and kept on rolling, clutching the wound with his right hand, feeling the gush of blood between his palms.
The warrior swung down again at William, but two combatants staggered between them. The cultist’s blade cut into a Bedouin who was wrestling with another Rassis, and both men fell into the mire of sand and blood.
In the chaos, William reached for a sword, any sword, as the cultist recovered and attacked again. His bloodied and numbed hand found a Tarabin sword and he pulled it over his body, parrying the first attack. William kicked out and his boot struck something hard: the attacker’s knee. It took out the cultist’s leg and the warrior stumbled, falling with a thud that dazed him. William swung the Tarabin sword at the bared neck. A crunch, and it severed head from shoulders.
Dazed and in nauseating pain, William slipped to his knees, letting go of the sword. Blood poured from the injured hand. He propped himself against a dying horse and examined the wound.
The Rassis weapon had taken the whole of his little finger and the first two joints of the next. He was bleeding profusely and felt faint. Battle was raging around him, the bodies spilling across the sand. Though there were occasional dark blue robes amongst the fallen, most of the dead were Bedouins.
William’s nausea grew. He could see that they were losing.
IV
Peruzo traded blows with a cultist. The man was shorter than Peruzo by half a foot, yet he was quick, and already Peruzo sported a wound to his right shoulder; a glancing blow but enough to sap his strength. His opponent was superior in skill and speed. Yet what Peruzo lacked in youth and agility, he made up for in experience. As he feinted with the sword in his left hand, he felt the adrenalin flood down his numbed right arm. The dark blue warrior – his armour wet with Bedouin blood – went for what he took to be Peruzo’s weaker side. He swung for the bloodied shoulder, but Peruzo swapped hands and parried with his right, unsettling his opponent. Peruzo’s left fist stuck the man hard in the wind-pipe and he fell back choking, before Peruzo swivelled his shortsword and thrust it just above the chest armour, once, then twice, and a final time, each thrust a death blow.
The lieutenant stood up and rallied Brothers Cristiano and Garibaldi to him. Garibaldi was lurching to the left, a hand pressed to his ribs. He was bleeding badly, and it was sheer determination that kept him standing.
‘Once more!’ Peruzo half yelled, half gasped, and all three charged into the melee, their feet churning through the blood-soaked sand.
V
William bandaged his hand with a strip from a Bedouin robe, his grey jacket now a rusty colour. The bleeding had halted, but the hand throbbed. Amongst the corpses he had found Engrin’s sword again, and not too soon. A cultist appeared from the fray his armour cloven, blood pouring from his wounds, yet still he staggered on. It seemed across that vast expanse of carnage that the warrior wanted to fight William, and William only. He marched towards him, ducking strikes from Bedouins and dodging grappling bodies that were resorting to wrestling as the ground grew boggy with bloodshed. William rose to meet him and they traded blows in quick succession. Weak himself, William eventually managed to hack through the man’s wrist before ramming the tip of the sword into the assailant’s breastbone. Still the warrior fought on, and William jerked his sword loose, swinging it wildly as dexterity deserted him. With a lucky strike that glanced up off the armour an inch or two below the mask, he sliced through the Rassis’s neck.
Once more, William fell to his knees, exhausted. But this time he didn’t think he had the strength to rise again. It took much to destroy these dervishes of death, these ghosts of the valley William did not know how many they still faced, but the peak of the carnage had passed. How much time had elapsed? Again, he did not know He did not know if any of the brothers were still alive, or whether Peruzo still lived. Or the sheikhs.
William resisted the temptation to look to the rear where he hoped his nephew waited. Victory or defeat had still to be decided. Putting his head down, he lifted himself from the ground, urging his legs to work again.
Standing, he swayed for a moment, bent double to cough harshly, tasting sand and blood on his lips. Through flailing arms and legs he forged on; past horses lying on their backs, struggling with their wounds, their flanks struck with arrow shafts; blood on every square yard of ground . . . Staggering through it all, lacking the strength to strike at anyone, William went in search of his men.
VI
It was Marco who saw them first. He pointed to the right of the battle and shouted.
‘There! Over there! Do you see them?’
Brother Ettore trotted his horse forward, his eyes not as young as Marco’s. Squinting under the shade of his hand, he could see the shapes now sallying from what first appeared to be a jagged edge of rock, but on longer inspection turned out to be an opening, maybe even a concealed stairway.
‘The boy is right!’ Brother Ettore exclaimed, turning his horse about. ‘There are men down there!’
Brother Jericho watched intently, holding his breath as he saw several shapes emerge from the cleft, followed by more.
Brother Ettore galloped up to Jericho. ‘You see them as well as I ,’ he growled.
‘I see figures, that’s all,’ Jericho replied, but felt Ettore’s impatience. ‘You wish to break our orders?’
‘You wish to see our men massacred?’
‘Our orders are to stay here and look after the boy,’ Jericho said, looking past Ettore to where Marco fidgeted in the saddle. ‘My eyes are young, Marco. but yours are younger. What colour are they?’
Marco stood up in his saddle and frowned. ‘They’re blue, I think,’ he replied, and urged his horse forward. ‘We must help my uncle!’
‘Marco!’ Jericho shouted back. ‘You are to stay here! Those are your uncle’s orders!’
‘They’re no good if he dies!’ Marco cried and spurred his horse.
The monks watched in horror as Marco galloped off to the right, the momentum of the horse almost jolting him from the saddle.
‘I think our decision is made,’ Jericho groaned. He drew his sword and glanced at Brother Ettore. ‘Are you with me?’
Brother Ettore grinned. ‘Of course!’ he said, and dug his boots in, launching into a gallop. The remaining monks of the Order gunned their mounts across the valley floor behind Marco, who continued to ride hard, the dust of the battle hiding them until they broke right behind the melee, and drove straight at the unsuspecting Rassis.
Marco drove headlong towards the first, unable to draw his sword as his horse bolted like a wild animal, not the tame beast he had ridden since Rashid. It ran down a scurrying warrior, trampled him flat with a crack of bone beneath his armour. The cultists behind him dived to the side, but one was hit
as the horse stampeded by, flinging his body against a rock with a lethal crunch. A third Rassis swung low, bending to his knees, to cut the horse’s legs from under Marco. He lost hold of the reins as he was dispatched from the saddle, flying over the beast’s neck, head over heels, the world turning brilliant white in a flash of pain.
Marco felt and heard little for an uncertain while. There was nothing apart from the sensation of rolling across soft ground before resting against something hard. He opened his eyes, and tried to focus on someone who was moving in front of him, raising something, breathing hard and fast .. . And then a broader shadow fell across Marco, followed by the swish of sundered air. With a wet cracking noise, warm blood jetted onto Marco’s chest, splattering his chin and cheeks.
‘Marco! Marco!’ someone said. ‘Get up! Get up, Marco!’
Marco wiped the blood from his eyes and looked up, focusing on the shadow. He got to his feet, his legs wobbling.
‘Find your senses!’ demanded the voice.
‘Jericho?’
‘Your sword! Get your . . .’ Jericho said from astride his horse before one of the Rassis leapt into the air to strike the horse. The monk defended the beast’s flank with two swift parries, before pulling the horse about to kick the Rassis in the ribcage. The iron-shod hoof shattered the warrior’s armour and staved in his ribs, crimson spraying finely from the mask. The cultist stumbled about, choking on his own blood, before falling in a heap next to the dead body of Brother Ettore.
‘Marco!’ Jericho screamed again as the boy searched heedlessly for his sword on the saddle of his dying horse. He had not seen a Rassis by the rocks raising his bow. Jericho pulled out a throwing dagger. The hurled blade sank into the cultist’s wrist, sending the arrow wide. Marco found his sword, but never knew how close he had come to death again.
Pulling his horse around to act as a temporary shield for the boy, Jericho leapt from the animal and slapped its hind quarters, sending it out of battle. ‘Someone has to keep you out of trouble!’ he half shouted, half laughed hysterically, dragging Marco away from where Brother Michael was locked in battle with another cultist.
‘What do I do?’ Marco cried as the battle intensified around them, another monk falling under a Rassis sword. It was Brother Michael.
‘Just follow me and kill any that come your way!’ Jericho shouted back at him, and they ran full-tilt into the nearest fray.
VII
Sheikh Fahd saw Anwar fall. He saw Sheikh Galal dragging his bloodied corpse to the edge of the battle where the struggle was less intense, a wall of Aquila fighters protecting them as Galal tended to the boy sheikh. Sheikh Fahd himself was bleeding from his brow and there was blood on his clothes, his men’s blood as well as the enemy’s. His sword had slain five of the Rassis. He wanted more.
Weary, his arms like lead and his heavy sword almost a hindrance, he stumbled into the thick of battle, seeing several Tarabin drop in moments against two of the cultists. These armoured fighters seemed to simply dance from man to man, dealing death with their long swords. Each Bedouin fell with chest cleaved open, head severed or limbs detached. It was carnage on a scale Sheikh Fahd had never imagined. The valley was a charnel house, but most of the dead were Ayaida, Aquila and Tarabin. The Rassis dogs had hardly been touched.
The inkling that he might be denied his brother’s revenge enraged Sheikh Fahd and he charged onwards, straight at two of the enemy swinging his scimitar up above his head. The first of the cultists leapt back, and the second might have escaped, but a reeling Bedouin knocked into him from behind. The collision disrupted his fluency; his sword rose late as Sheikh Fahd’s descended, cleaving the Rassis through the shoulder.
The other lunged fast at Sheikh Fahd, and only the sheikh’s loss of balance saved him from being skewered in the heart. The blade sank in just over an inch under the ribs. He cried out, and tumbled over. The Rassis threw the long sword aside, pulling out a dagger from his belt. He leapt over his dying colleague to thrust it into Sheikh Fahd as he lay prostrate on the ground. The sheikh looked up, knowing his life was finished – but as the Rassis’s blade arced down towards his heart, it was dashed aside. A white-robed figure grabbed hold of the masked cultist and drew a knife across his throat. The Rassis held on to his assailant, and they struggled, blood flowing down both of them. At last the cultist weakened, his struggles grew less, and he sank to the ground, still in the grip of his assailant.
Sheikh Fahd looked on, willing his eyes to stay open and his consciousness to remain, staring at the man who had saved his life. His rescuer was small, cove red in blood, and his face bedraggled; he was staring at his own knife that had done the work, his hands trembling. He looked up into the eyes of the sheikh, who simply gasped.
‘Hammid?’ he choked.
Hammid nodded. ‘You are wounded,’ he said and looked down at the sheikh.
Sheikh Fahd groaned as he tried to move. Hammid knelt beside him, still with the dagger in his hand, and despite all that had happened, the sheikh feared that Hammid would plunge it into his chest and finish the Rassis’s work.
But when Hammid didn’t, when he laid it on the bloody sand, Sheikh Fahd felt ashamed that he had distrusted this man. That he might even have executed him if Captain Saxon had not intervened.
This man, his saviour.
Hammid looked up fearfully at the clamour about them. He made to leave, but Sheikh Fahd held his arm. ‘I will not go,’ Hammid said reluctantly, but smiled with compassion, and both men stayed where they were for the remainder of the battle.
VIII
William found Peruzo fighting for his life beside some outmatched Bedouins. He arrived at the blind side of the attacking Rassis, focused on their prey. It seemed they too were tiring from the fighting.
William mustered his strength and dragged up his sword. His run took the blade through the back of one Rassis.
‘Captain!’ Peruzo cheered and fought his opponent with renewed hope, punching the man in the mask twice, before kicking him between the legs and then cutting his jugular with a swift stroke of his shortsword. The cultist fell, and then Peruzo yelled out in delirium as he went for the next, his fury stoking the courage of the Bedouins around him.
The Rassis began to fall back.
Their numbers were depleted, their strength waning. All along the line they began to retreat, disengaging from their enemies, who were mostly too tired to follow Those few who did – those Arabs still on fire with battle – made it to the foot of the rocks before a hail of arrows drove them back.
William was panting like a sick dog when Peruzo staggered over to him.
William looked up, his face awash with blood. ‘You live, my friend?’ he gasped.
Peruzo grinned. ‘I am no ghost,’ he said, but slumped a little. ‘They’re retreating ... I don’t believe it.. . We’ve beaten them ..’
William nodded, but it was scant relief he felt. They had driven the Rassis back, but for how long? The sounds of fighting dwindled, and as William closed his eyes to gather his composure he wondered how many of these fiercest of foes were left.
The battlefield lay quiet. Those left standing bowed breathlessly or shook with fatigue, not even daring to count the dead. Through the murk came two figures, both looking dishevelled in their grey uniforms, dusted with sand and blood. William was sure these were monks, but as they approached he saw that one was tall and the other slight. Almost like a boy.
‘Marco?’ William said.
Marco stumbled towards him and straight into William’s arms. William held him tight on waves of relief. The boy was safe.
Marco held him harder, and for a moment William thought he heard him sob. but when the boy stood back, William noted a dramatic change in him. Whether by the blood that crusted his brow, or by those eyes, d ark and serious, he saw that this was no longer a boy before him. It was a man.
William was stunned by the transformation. Stunned and angered. ‘I ordered you to stay,’ he said, and looked up at Jericho rep
roachfully. At first Jericho said nothing, regarding Marco proudly.
‘Your nephew saw them outflanking us, Captain. He saved your life. He saved everyone’s,’ Jericho told William, and recounted the charge that led them into battle. It was hard to hear, especially with the loss of the brothers, but William was grudgingly thankful. They had survived the encounter with the Rassis Cult . . .
But the battle was not over.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The Cult’s Last Stand
I
Peruzo deployed the survivors behind the largest boulders scattered at the foot of the mountain. The shadows about them grew thick as the sun dipped behind the hills. Almost an hour had passed since the battle had ended, yet the Rassis were as diligent as ever. Another flight of arrows rained down, killing a further dozen Bedouins who were tending to the wounded. It was a warning to all that the Rassis were far from defeated.
‘What are our losses?’ William asked.
‘Fifteen dead, seven survivors,’ Peruzo said bleakly. ‘With the casualties suffered by our allies, any assault on this mountain would be catastrophic. We could not hope to win.’
If William agreed, he kept it to himself. Of the sheikhs, Galal was unscathed, Anwar was dead, and Sheikh Fahd unfit for battle. Only a third of the Bedouin army were in any condition to fight. The Tarabin had suffered devastating losses, while the Ayaida and Aquila were at less than half strength.
We cannot turn back now We must assault the mountain before night falls. By morning, we will be dead in any case,’ William said.
We have but six hundred Bedouins and only one sheikh who can lead them. Will he follow us?’ Peruzo said.
William had not considered this. Sheikh Galal was largely unknown to him. The leader of the Aquila had said little throughout the journey from the camp of the Ayaida to the Valley of Fire, yet Sheikh Fahd had never once questioned his courage as he had Mazin’s. Would Galal turn and leave? Or would he stand and fight?
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