“No prisoners!” Roger shouted from his position, as one of the black-dressed sergeants helped him to rise.
But the charging Templars faced organized monks. They tried to maneuver them from the rear, but Peter and Owen had placed the two carts in their way. Red Herring was shouting insults toward the attackers as Owen, dressed like a ragged friar shooting at them with his bow.
“What a blasphemy! Shooting bastards,” the Templar captain cried.
Red Herring’s men had wedged themselves into a narrow place in the valley, with their backs against the solid yellow rocks. This little advantage saved them, for now.
Peter was curious, watching the holy knights near their defensive line and the stranger, who had almost reached the rest of the Templars near the fallen carriage and the last guard of the royal person. Maybe she was a princess? A beautiful one, he hoped. Or did she look like an old rag? Peter saw a threat flying to his head and he instinctively raised his shield. He heard something that struck the metal part of the shield and deflected to the ground. He felt the power of the blow, as his left hand ached. Peter glimpsed at the spear which stuck on the ground, an inch from his left feet. Focus, man, he said to himself as he looked forward.
The Frank was behind the two Templars facing the final Hospitaller. He threw the green apple to the servant next to the woman who held a baby, over the attacker’s heads. He nodded to the boy and the servant gave it to the baby to play with.
The cry of the infant stopped.
The Hospitaller Knight was almost on his knees, bleeding, tired, and wounded. One of his assailants succeeded in hitting him from his right and made him lose balance. The other met him with his shield and pushed him hard to fall on the ground.
Peter was behind his shield. The Templars were regrouping and preparing for another charge. But the orphan looked forward. He wanted to see the stranger.
The pale Frank looked focused. His hair was ragged, his eyes looked cold, his gait was that of a predator, anticipating his target’s move.
The orphan hadn’t seen such movement before. He felt some bad feeling in his stomach, like never before.
With a swift move, the stranger reached the first Templar from behind, grabbed his mantle with his left hand, forcefully pulling him back. He hit him on the neck, below his helmet, like a tavern brawler, with ferocity and brute strength. The stricken man fell, dropping his sword.
The Frank caught it in the air and faced the second man, attacking him and deflecting his swing with skill. With ease—as if he were playing with his dogs—he kicked dust into the Templar’s eyes, gaining a moment in which to twist his blade deep into the man’s throat. Then he turned and stabbed the first man, still trying to rise from his back. The point of the sword showed through his neck.
The Frank wiped the fresh Templar blood from his face while the second body convulsed near him. It all seemed to happen in a heartbeat before the orphan could blink.
The Frank left the sword in the second corpse, rose, and said something to the nearby servants and the lady. Then he turned and knelt beside the first body. He searched it for a moment and, apparently, found what he was looking for: a short blade and a one-handed Danish axe—a single piece of wood with a crescent-shaped blade on one end. The axe was as long as a one-handed sword.
Peter had seen knights use axes—the soldiers called them horseman axes, or hafted axes—but never in combat. He always connected chivalry, knighthood, and soldiering with the sword. The sword seemed inexorably connected to a man’s honor and pride.
The men-at-arms had used to wear an additional weapon for clearing wooden obstacles or smashing enemies’ shields during battle. While the orphan was observing the other end of the valley, he received a blow on the shield he held. He supposed his shoulder would hurt him for a few days. He swung his sword, but he cut only the air. Peter observed that the assailant turned his horse aside and kicked orphan’s shield. The Templar raised his sword again and Owen put an arrow in his armpit. The rider cried, spurred his horse and ran away.
The adrenaline from his first open-field battle filled Peter with life. He almost forgot the sadness of his mentor’s death and the pain from his head wounds and his legs. He was focused on what was happening around him and on the stranger’s actions.
“Duck!” He received an order and instinctively obeyed, evading a strike to his helmet. He was already used to the good judgment of Red Herring.
Peter saw a sword swinging through the air above his head, and a sweat drop fell from James’ brow as he heard his own heartbeat. Everything was moving slowly around Peter. He had observed this delusion before but had had not discussed it with anyone. He was amazed by his discovery: time slowed when he entered into danger. Was it the same for everybody or just him? He was smiling. Why was he smiling? Was it normal to be like that during a fight?
He looked around at the men with him, James, David, Owen. They were the closest companions he had today, even if he had only met them two days before. He noticed their grim smiles and determined eyes. No one showed any signs of fear or lack of courage.
The fierce and brave Sir James, whose face became reddish in battle and justified his nickname, Red Herring—he was an unforgettable character. His knightly presence on the field was essential and influenced the others. This was the way he thought a real knight and leader must behave in the face of danger and in front of his men to give an example to others, to give them courage, to organize them and to calm them, to be the spearhead of their formation, and to motivate them. To make them be like a family, to defend together as a unit and to want to die for each other. This was a real leader.
Because they were brothers of war, sword brothers, Crusaders for life. No one could take this away from them.
The ragged band of monks became a rogue host of experienced warriors led by a reddish-faced man who looked like an angry bear.
But the Templars were experienced soldiers, doing what must be done in the name of God, or so they said. Shouts and the clash of weapons met each other. Owen was shooting with ferocity on his face. He released arrow after arrow. In the narrow valley, it wasn’t hard to deliver. Horses and flesh, mail and battle sounds echoed at once.
But then there was another sound, a new song.
The baby didn’t cry anymore but laughed.
Even James and Peter took a moment to look away from the battle and observe what was going on. The baby played with the green apple and was laughing.
The stranger—the “Franj,” as the Mamluk called their kind—the pale man was dressed in a tattered shirt and pants but was armed with a short blade and an axe. Two bodies lay near him, the Templar’s sergeants who had been left to finish the last guard of the royalty. The sword of one of them stuck up from his body, symbolically. The Frank knelt down, looked over the wounded Hospitaller, and helped him rise. He moved like a dust shadow, like a predator of sands, and his almost white hair was streaked with blood.
The servants stood behind the lady and stared at the stranger. The pale man turned his back on them and looked at the fast-approaching, white-mantled knights. The Templars were split, half surrounding Red Herring in some fierce push to penetrate false monks’ wooden obstacle defense, and another five galloping to the Frank, wanting to avenge their fallen brethren.
Edward the Saracen was behind Peter and his eyes and mouth were wide open.
“Diyaab al-Sahra, The … Desert … Wolf.” His throat was full of sand, but his eyes weren’t calm anymore “The Frankish Wolf ….”
Peter looked at the assassin, then back to the pale stranger.
“Desert what?” The orphan asked.
David was behind the Saracen; he constantly looked after him. From Sir James’ shadow, he had become the assassin’s one.
“Shields up!” Red Herring shouted and all of them prepared to meet another charge. This time, the enemy footmen’s soldiers were on the move. They were trying to open the route for the horse raiders. But Peter was very curious and he risked exp
osing himself to danger to see the Wolf.
And what splendid entertainment he received for taking such a risk.
The Desert Wolf had no armor but his cold-blooded face made the orphan’s skin prickle. In his left hand, he held a blade and in his right, a one-handed axe. The first rider who reached him was about to swing his sword. Without waiting, the Wolf lunged his knee straight forward to the horse’s left flank, unbalanced the animal, and used its speed and acceleration to take it to the ground. The horseman was surprised and shouted as he fell under the stallion.
The second rider was a few heartbeats behind, and his face was distorted by surprise from what he saw that had caused his forerunner to collapse. Suddenly, a shadow, fast and dirty, used the sound of the crack of bones and cries to jump to the right and used his axe to cut the throat of the Templar. Blood and the terrifying sound of bones crashing were flying through the air with the sand. The other Templars passed their two fallen comrades and their horses and tried to turn around. The sergeants ran to help them.
Roger of Sicily was observing from a new horse delivered by his sergeant and was shouting fast orders. But the Desert Wolf was like a plague, fast and deadly. He grabbed the third rider and pulled him off the saddle. He threw him to the ground and stabbed him.
He never tried to parry the approaching weapon of the enemy but evaded it and, with the speed of a hungry predator, he kissed them with his deadly teeth. After another heartbeat, two of the riders were dead. The first attacker, who was trying to stand on his feet and to meet him, was still alive. But after the fall, the soldier looked dizzy. The stranger approached him with haste and with a swift move of his hand he delivered a fierce, fatal blow, piercing his head directly through the eyes and breaking victim’s skull. He left the short blade inside.
“There is no mercy in his soul,” Edward the Saracen said. He had witnessed the bloodthirsty Wolf as the rest of them had.
The orphan was silent. The course of the battle had changed. Half of the Templars had been cut down without mercy by this pale, ragged man without armor.
The baby laughed again while holding the green apple with his tender, little hands.
The remaining half of the Templars gathered around their bruised captain and regrouped for another charge, this time taking care not to underestimate the opposition.
Near Red Herring and his men, there were some wounded horses and few knights who couldn’t retreat to their companions. Owen took care of the horses. Hamo stepped out from their shield wall and kicked the first standing knight. Cursing, he used his shield to knock down the whimpering soldier.
“Hamo, get your arse back here.” Red Herring’s voice cut the horizon.
The Templars split again. Five men galloped toward the pale Frank, while the rest charged at Hamo, who was still outside the improvised defense. James rushed from his place and ran to the lord from the Welsh Marches.
“Get back in line, right away,” he shouted to the young knight. James felt the danger to which Hamo had exposed his men. The lord from the Welsh Marches turned back to his old position and started running, not even taking the time to look at the pursuers. James was a few steps in front of the first rank and was ready with his shield. He made a place for Hamo to enter behind him, then stepped back, closing the gap to the raiders just in time to meet a devastating blow with his shield. James managed not to lose either his balance or his ground.
But the Templars had lost their chance to penetrate the defenders’ line. They rode around the English like hungry predators, unable to reach their prey. They cursed their luck.
All attention was diverted from the pale, dirty defender of the royal lady. At the moment, Peter was free to watch what was happening at the opposite end of the valley. The five men had been reduced to only two on horses, two dead and another twisting from pain on the ground, as a fountain of blood gushed from where he had a hand. The severed limb was on the dusty ground still holding the sword.
The other two riders turned their destriers and were calculating their chances. Meanwhile, the Wolf stood by the wounded knight and, with a single blow of the axe, he blew away the man’s skull, creating an unforgettable sound of breaking bones. The blood flew and pieces of the man’s brain scattered on the dirt. Some parts were on the Wolf’s ragged boots. He had killed the man easily, without seeming to make any effort.
This was like an invitation to the other Templars. Peter's eyes were wide and his jaw dropped a bit, as the Desert Wolf killed them, one by one. The Wolf left no one alive around him, like a butcher preparing meat for supper.
The rest of the Templars slowed down and hesitated, unsure of what to do. They had lost half of their brothers to a single man with a blade and bloody axe. He had no shield and no armor, but he looked like a warrior demon covered with enemy’s blood.
The Wolf had given them no chance, not even to surrender.
That wasn’t chivalrous.
Nor was war.
James must have read Peter’s mind.
“There are only two rules in war, lad: To win and to survive. Remember that.”
Peter was frozen to death by fear as he held tight his shield and spear.
“On my signal, ready to advance,” Red Herring shouted.
A knight of Roger’s men dared to attack the pale frank again.
The Desert Wolf had taken a sword from the last dead body as his right was still holding the axe, from which blood drops were coloring the ground. He was waiting and looking his approaching opponent in the eyes.
The rider galloped toward him with a sword raised, ready to cut him down. The Sun shone on the assailant’s armor. Peter thought that the horseman looked like a warring angel, come down from heaven to deliver justice. The mounted, divine messenger looked large and fearsome and was trotting with his horse. His big sword was in his hand, and his head with a helmet was slightly leaning forward. He looked like the last thing a man saw in this forsaken world.
In a few heartbeats, the horse and his rider would be on him—one, two, and the Wolf made a move.
With focus and determination, he ran forward. The rider held his weapon with his right hand, but the running footman suddenly had changed the position and moved on the left side of the horseman, surprising him.
The move was so quickly executed that Peter blinked and missed it. When he opened his eyes, the sword of the Wolf was already between the head of the horse and the raider’s belly.
Peter heard the roar of the horseman mixed with the sound of the iron that kissed his chain-mail armor. The song of steel echoed. The Frank was so strong that he didn’t lose his balance and the rider was cast from his saddle. Peter heard the dull sound of the body hitting the ground. Blood was wasted as if it were as useless as dirt. The Wolf stepped to the fallen warrior of God and put his blade between his eyes, crushing his skull as if it were but an apple split with a fruit knife.
“Charge!” James ordered and his small band of monks ran toward the remaining Templars.
Roger fled with the rest of his men and the battle was over.
Chapter Nine
Via Maris, Holy Land, Sunday, 19th of June, in the year 1272 of the incarnation of Christ;
Blood dripped down Peter’s face. He ignored it and stared at the Desert Wolf. The adrenaline in his veins overcame his rational thought.
Owen was grinning, as always. “I took down four men,” he said.
Hamo looked at him. “So what?”
“Why did the Templars attack us, too?” the Welshman asked. “Yes, Hamo provoked them, but so what? We’re on the same side, aren’t we?”
A man lying nearby was convulsing. He tried to speak, but his throat had been pierced by a bodkin arrowhead. The sound of bubbling blood and labored breathing was unbearable. The pale Frank approached him and dispatched him from his pain.
Peter was looking at the battlefield. It had been his first open fight and it hadn’t lasted longer than a song at the harbor’s tavern.
“Is that it?”
“We must hurry; they could be back,” Red Herring said.
“Mamluks are watching us,” the pale Frank said to James and nodded to the north.
Red Herring stared for a moment and then spat on the ground.
“Damn it. Our priest-cover is over. Come on, lads, get the valuables,” James said.
The orphan noticed Red Herring’s men’s deftness when they searched the dead bodies. They systematically detached any precious or useful items from their corpses—not only coins but gear, as well. Owen gathered his arrows back. Hamo approached, carrying a Hospitaller’s surcoat.
“The royal lady will need bodyguards,” he suggested, holding the sleeveless garment up to his body.
Peter was observing the bodies. His heartbeat wasn’t decreasing as drops of sweat ran down his forehead. Owen and David had brought the wooden cart as all the plunder was placed near James. Some of the Hamo’s men unloaded the false dead saints from the cart to make room for the stolen goods.
“All of you, equip and arm yourselves, quickly,” James said.
One of Hamo’s men had assembled the free horses and tied them behind the carriage, which was ready for travel.
“False monks!” A young voice said. It was the lady. She approached the men, who were changing their robes without shame. The last standing Hospitaller followed her.
“Who are you?” she asked
“Why did they attack you, milady?” Hamo’s voice was gentle.
“Do you know it isn’t polite to answer a question with another?”
Peter saw a tiny smile on Hamo’s face.
“The first thing to do when you are saved is to say thank you. And then it is customary to introduce yourself.”
The lady removed her hood.
She was the most beautiful lady Peter had ever seen, with extraordinary blue eyes, small lips, and a thin nose. She seemed to be his age, or younger. Her long, dark-red hair was tied at the back of her neck. Peter had trouble looking away from her face.
Longsword- Edward and the Assassin Page 14