by Oden, Scott
“Inshallah!” Shirkuh echoed. With a shout and a flash of drawn steel, the one-eyed Kurd bolted away, dust swirling in his horse’s wake.
Assad swung into the saddle; his horse whinnied, stamping its hooves and tossing its head. He leaned over to pat the mare’s neck, when something in the distance caught his attention—a flash of light, a shimmer of gold. Assad straightened, shaded his eyes with the flat of his hand. Across the plain, at the forefront of the Nazarene lines, the standard of the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem rippled and danced: an ornate golden cross on a silver field. Beside it rose and fell the dour emblem of the Templars, a pennon half white and half black. The sight of it fired the blood in his veins. The stink of Ascalon choked him, the stench of charred flesh and viscera, the reek of corpses left to rot under the merciless sun.
“Allah smite those sons of bitches!” Rage made Assad’s voice steel-cold and harder than flint.
“The Franks call that rag Beauséant in their uncouth tongue,” Yusuf said, coming abreast of the Assassin. He smoothed his beard to cover the grimace of distaste twisting his thin features. “But in Syria we know it as the standard of the Devil himself. You are familiar with the Order of the Temple?”
“Aye, I know their handiwork. The siege engines at Ascalon flew that ill-fated banner.” Assad stared hard at the distant pennon. Unconsciously, he stroked the pommel of his salawar, sinews twisting with the familiar burn of hatred still raw after fourteen years.
Fourteen years, and not a day had passed without some phantom reminder of Ascalon’s death. Even the carnage Assad had wrought in his guise as the Emir of the Knife paled by comparison to the senseless slaughter of those dark times: days spent fighting off wave after howling wave of Nazarenes who sought death in service to their crucified messiah; nights spent huddled in the lee of a shattered wall, ankle-deep in a broth of blood and piss, kept awake by the creaking of Templar war machines—and by the flesh-rending impact of their crude missiles. And that cursed piebald banner … Assad’s jaw clamped shut, the muscles in his neck knotted. Allah, how he hated that scrap of filth! Day and night it had fluttered over the siege works, a constant reminder that a swift and ignominious death was but a stone’s throw away.
Now, the piebald banner had come to Egypt. To his homeland! Should Shirkuh fail, the same machines that breached the walls of Ascalon will batter Cairo to dust. The same threat; the same specter. But I am not the same man. The Assassin bared his teeth in a cold and mirthless smile. I am the Emir of the Knife, the Fist of Alamut. I am Death incarnate.
“Who leads these Templars?” Assad snapped.
Leather creaked as Yusuf leaned forward in his saddle. Lips pursed, he considered the pair of standards—Jerusalem and Temple. “With Amalric on the field,” he replied at length, “I expect they have dispatched their chief warmonger. Ya sidi-Arnat is what we of Damascus call him. Arnaud de Razès is his name in the tongue of Frankistan. If it serves Allah’s purpose, may his fall be as swift as his rise.” Yusuf straightened. Horns blared; across the field, the host of Jerusalem surged forward. “Look, they come! You had best get the Caliph to safety!”
The bronze curb bit jangled as Assad wheeled his mare about, the seed of a plan forming in his mind. He nodded to the Caliph. “Come, my lord.”
The younger man eyed him with great curiosity. “What was that about? What bedevils you, my friend?”
“It’s nothing. A memory of Ascalon. Quickly, now! We must get you to safety before the arrows fall.”
The Prince of the Faithful frowned at the mention of Ascalon, but following Assad’s lead he spurred his horse to a gallop, his guard close on his heels. Soldiers parted; the men of Damascus cheered his passage no less stridently than did the men of Cairo, their glittering weapons thrust to heaven. The Caliph raised his hand in benediction.
Leaving the raucous host behind, the cortege rode south in silence. They passed through Shirkuh’s camp, through his sparse—and sparsely guarded—baggage train, where merchants and would-be camp followers had come from Cairo to ply their trade among the Turkomans. Sutlers and whores. Assad studied this with no little interest as he and the Caliph’s entourage cantered down the road, the seed of an idea taking root …
A distant roar caused Rashid al-Hasan to rein in his horse. The animal stamped and snorted; the Caliph twisted in the saddle to stare at the thunderheads of dust rising over the battlefield. Assad heard it, too: faint cries intermingled with horn blasts and the basso rumble of drums. “Blessed Allah! It has begun,” the younger man muttered. “It is only a matter of time now. Will we know the outcome by nightfall, you think?”
“Perhaps,” Assad said. “And perhaps sooner. Go quickly, my lord. Your guard will see you safely back to the city.”
“You’re not returning with us?”
“No. I have a new task in mind.” Assad dismounted and stripped off his turban, his helmet; he unwound his sash and shrugged out of his khalat. This left him clad only in a mail hauberk, white linen trousers, and boots of supple leather. “A task that, given my master’s orders, I’ve decided I cannot leave to chance … or to Shirkuh.”
“But are you not charged with securing my safety?”
“After a fashion,” Assad replied. He glanced around at the White Slaves of the River who guarded the Caliph, at the style of their armor and the manner of their dress. “You there,” he said to one whose harness was simplest of all. “Lend me your coif. I need a belt, and a straight sword with a plain hilt.” The soldier looked to the Caliph, who nodded his assent. The first mameluke drew off his mail hood while another unbuckled his weapon and handed it over to Assad. That done, the Caliph waved his guards away.
“What do you mean, ‘after a fashion’?”
“My orders have always been twofold: dispose of any who would do you harm, and sow fear among your enemies. Win or lose, Amalric needs to be reminded there are some things no number of swords can defend against. Inshallah, I can think of no better instructor than the one standing before you.”
Rashid al-Hasan swore. “Don’t be a fool, Assad! Even for you, Amalric’s death is no spur-of-the-moment undertaking!”
“My lord, does the messenger kill his intended recipient? If he does, who will hear what he has to say? Not his recipient’s kinsmen, for they’ll be too intent upon vengeance. No”—Assad bared his teeth—“there is another, one who stands at the King’s shoulder, whose death will serve our purposes.” The Assassin settled his borrowed sword on his left hip and tucked his salawar into his belt. Finally, he drew the mail coif over his head. It was a simple disguise, but one that rendered him indistinguishable from any number of native-born Nazarene soldiers who fought under Amalric’s banner. Satisfied with his appearance, Assad swung into the saddle.
“No! I forbid this!”
Assad shrugged. “Forbid all you like, my lord, but my mind is set. If I have not returned by dawn, then it is likely I shall not return at all. Remember what I’ve told you! Send secretly to my master, tell him what has befallen, and he will surely send you all the aid you require. Be wary of Shirkuh! Beneath his beard and bluster lurks the heart of a serpent. A victory here today will only serve to embolden him.” Assad’s horse pranced, sensing its rider’s anticipation to be away. “I must go. As-salaam alaikum.” Touching his heels to the mare’s flanks, the animal sprang forward; the grace and power of its Arabian blood was undeniable. With a wild cry, the Emir of the Knife vanished in a maelstrom of dust.
“Alaikum as-salaam, my friend,” Rashid al-Hasan muttered. His heart suddenly heavy, the Prince of the Faithful turned his horse toward Cairo, where the domes and minarets of the Mother of the World shimmered, beckoning him home through waves of brutal heat …
8
“God wills it!”
Precipitated by that strident roar, the knights of the Order of the Temple led the charge against the center of the Moslem line, against the serried ranks waiting beneath the gold and yellow pennons of the Fatimids. The earth shook with the thundero
us impact of their horses’ hooves; steel-clad riders gave tongue, screaming a holy paean so God might hear them over the shriek of trumpets and the rumble of drums. At their head, snapping in the artificial gale, the Templars’ piebald banner seemed an impoverished rag alongside the gold and silver of Jerusalem. Behind them, Amalric’s infantry struggled to keep pace.
Through the billowing dust, Yusuf ibn Ayyub witnessed the headlong charge of the Nazarenes—rather more like a controlled stampede in the enemy’s direction. What struck him most, though, was the display of courage by the men of Cairo, who stood unflinching as the steel fist of Christendom bore down upon them. The young Kurd’s sword flashed in salute to their unparalleled valor before turning into a gesture for his trumpeter. A horn blast skirled over the Turkoman lines; as one, Yusuf’s half-wild archers unleashed a hellish rain of iron.
A single Turkoman, trained from birth in the traditions of horse archery, could loose five arrows in the span of time it took a horse to travel ten paces; a thousand such Turkomans, loosing in unison, could hide the face of the sun behind a veil of black-feathered shafts. Now, their arrows scythed through the Nazarene lines, volley upon volley, puncturing leather and mail and flesh. Riders toppled from the saddle; horses stumbled and screamed, crashing to the dusty ground to foul the legs of their fellows.
Still, the Nazarene charge did not falter. Their voices sang out: “God wills it!” And perhaps He did, for as the third Turkoman volley lofted skyward the lances of the Order of the Temple splintered against the shields and bodies of the men of Cairo. Through a haze of blood and grit, Yusuf heard a terrible sound—like the wet snap of bone coupled with the grinding rasp of metal upon metal, the whole punctuated by screams, guttural shouts, and cries to Allah for mercy.
Yusuf ibn Ayyub, though, had little time to appreciate their sacrifice. Preceded by the desultory sniping of their own archers, a wave of Nazarene infantry came baying through the haze. Mail-clad giants with bristling blond mustaches swung their axes alongside dark-eyed Norman swordsmen and savage native spearmen from the Christian strongholds of the Lebanon. Howling like wolves, their eyes alight with holy fervor, Amalric’s soldiers struck the Turkoman lines with deafening impact.
Spears cracked and shivered; swords beat upon shields; axes crushed helmets and the skulls underneath; blood spewed from riven throats and poured from pierced entrails, turning the ground underfoot into a scarlet morass. The stench of a slaughterhouse filled the air. Curses and prayers, grunts and screams rippled along the lines, competing with the deafening crash of steel upon steel.
And like a wave upon the rocks, the warriors of Jerusalem broke against the Moslem bulwark …
9
Assad rode as though the Devil himself gave chase, pushing his sweat-lathered horse mercilessly through the afternoon heat. Loose rock and scree rattled under the animal’s hooves as it thundered down the bed of a long-dry wadi that cleft the hills at the desert’s edge. By ridge and ravine, Assad worked his way around the site of the battle, keeping the road from Cairo to Bilbeis always on his left-hand side.
The name of the Templars’ master swirled through Assad’s mind, the Assassin’s plan for him coalescing around it. Ya sidi-Arnat. Arnaud de Razès. Provided he survived the battle, this de Razès would serve as a scapegoat for the dog-king of Jerusalem—a message Amalric could not deny: win or lose, his campaign was at an end. This Templar … his flesh would be the wax; Assad’s blade, the stylus.
Would that I could destroy them all, Assad thought, gritting his teeth. Every last one of them! Let them suffer as the folk of Ascalon suffered! But he squelched the desire for vengeance, that craving for blood no less distracting than the lust for a woman. Vengeance could not be his purpose. Not now. Not with the fate of Egypt hanging in the balance. He would cleave to his original commission to sow fear among the Caliph’s enemies.
I am Death incarnate.
Still, in the back of his mind, Assad heard his old mentor’s voice, his tone one of sharp rebuke though not without its usual dollop of patience: and what if your prey falls on the field, in the first exchange of blows? What then? Rather than despair, the Emir of the Knife’s dust-streaked face settled in an iron mask of resolve. Alive or dead, de Razès’s fate meant little. Another Templar would take his place, and that man would become his target. The message was all that mattered. The message and its delivery … for that, he had to get close to Amalric.
Some five miles north of where Moslem and Nazarene clashed, Assad drew rein as an errant breeze brought him the telltale scent of wood smoke and ox dung. He dismounted and clambered to the crest of a low bluff. Dropping first to a crouch and then onto his belly, he wriggled across rock and scrub until he was able to peer out over the Nile floodplain. A scant two hours of daylight remained. Squinting against the westering sun, he saw the river in the distance, its surface the color of molten copper. Closer, reed-choked canals were emerald slashes alongside the brown of patchwork fields, their rows already stripped clean of this season’s crops; a village straddled the palm-lined road from Cairo, houses of mudbrick and thatch crowning a flat hillock fringed with dusty sycamores. A slender minaret rose above the trees.
And all around, encircling the village like a peasant army, sprawled the baggage train of the King of Jerusalem.
Assad grunted in satisfaction. Unlike Shirkuh’s Turkomans, who were born to the saddle and bred to make do with the barest necessities, Amalric’s army required the efforts of a small city to ensure its survival. Hundreds of wagons surrounded the village—ox-drawn wains that conveyed the army’s tents and pavilions, its utensils and tackle, its provender and perishables. Drovers tended to the lowing oxen while farriers and squires made ready to care for the cavalry’s weary mounts once the battle ended. Smoke curled from the temporary forges where armorers and blacksmiths plied their trade, adding to the miasma rising off the ovens and roasting pits. Assad saw gangs of villagers pressed into service hauling water and digging trenches. Their Nazarene overseers paid them little heed, though; instead, they fixed their attention to the south, where plumes of dust marked their king’s battle against the Saracen.
With predatory patience, Assad studied the enemy encampment; he noted the ebb and flow of individuals, the distribution of material. He marked the wood gatherers engaged in building bonfires against the coming night, and the draymen who shuffled the heavier wagons to the edge of camp to create makeshift ramparts. He paid special attention to the pairs of men-at-arms who stood sentinel around the perimeter. As he expected, they were not the cream of Amalric’s soldiery, but rather lightly armored irregulars or veterans too old to fight in the vanguard … hale, to be sure, but nearing the end of their usefulness. Assad stripped off his borrowed coif and tossed it aside. From what he could tell, the men who remained with the baggage train wore no mail; neither would he.
As the Assassin backed away from the bluff’s edge—routes of infiltration already taking shape in his mind—movement off to the south caught his attention. Instinctively, he dropped flat against the chalk-dry earth. Through the dust and lengthening shadows a single horseman raced up the road, Jerusalem’s colors fluttering from the tip of his lance. Horns blared from sentries at the camp’s edge; the commotion drew men from every quarter, men who shouted questions to the rider as he passed, his destination no doubt the small plaza and mosque at the center of the village. He bore news of the battle, but was the news good or ill? Denied answers, even the sentries joined the press of men streaming after the rider.
Determined to take advantage of the sudden lapse in the camp’s vigilance, Assad scuttled across the ground. He did not have time to retrace his steps, to find a simpler way down onto the plain; near at hand, a deep crevice cleft the face of the bluff. The Assassin cast a quick glance across the plain, then swung his legs over the crevice’s edge and recklessly lowered himself down, oblivious to the forty-foot drop. To a man who had survived alone in the high Afghan mountains, where the wind howled and knives of ice carved canyons
through the black limestone, the fissure’s cracks and outcroppings created no more a hindrance than did a rickety ladder. In places, Assad’s mailed shoulders scraped stone; his booted feet dislodged showers of rock as he fell the last few feet to the Nile floodplain.
The Assassin rolled and came up into a crouch. Sweat burned his eyes. He breathed heavily, flexing his fingers to work the cramps from them; the muscles in his thighs and back ached. Fresh blood seeped from the lacerations he’d received at the hands of the Heretic. In the distance a ragged cheer sounded from the Nazarene camp—a sign the rider’s news must surely favor Jerusalem. Assad, though, was unmoved, undeterred. The message is all that matters.
Rising, he unbuckled his sheathed sword and tossed it into the crevice. Next, accompanied by muffled curses, he wriggled free of his mail hauberk. This left him clad in a jupon of faded green and gold brocade—sweat stained and spotted with rust—his trousers, and boots. Baring the edge of his salawar, he cut a strip of leather from the hauberk’s hem and used it to tie back his tangled black hair. Not a perfect Frank, true, but he trusted the coming night to camouflage the worst of his flaws.
Assad caught up his blade, sheathed it, and set off across the plain with the loping stride of a hunter. He kept to the swathes of waist-high sedge grass that divided the naked brown fields, vaulting narrow canals overgrown with reeds; his passage dislodged a flock of herons who took to wing amid sharp cries of indignation.
It took longer than expected, but Assad reached the edge of the Nazarene camp as the sun dipped below the far horizon. The sky above was aflame—shades of fiery red and orange and umber fading to the deep velvet of night. Stars flared to life, pinpricks of light in the evening haze. Assad bolted from a thicket of sedge and skidded to a crouch alongside one of the perimeter wagons. Panting, he listened to the chaotic sounds of Amalric’s camp.