Longsword- Edward and the Assassin

by Dimitar Gyopsaliev

  “Over here!” Owen shouted.

  Everything around him slowed and blurred, like a slow song. Only his thoughts and reactions seemed to happen at a normal speed. Another guard appeared from the dark in search of his companion. Peter was caught in the middle of his deed. He had to act first, and he knew it. The young man lunged forward to overtake the running soldier drawing his sword. Peter surprised him with this jump and hit him in the throat with his left arm. The guard choked and tried to push him away and cry out. But Peter swung his right hand and pierced the guard under his jaw with the bloody blade. Warm, sticky blood ran down his arm.

  The orphan looked the Mamluk in his eyes; it seemed to be the right thing to do, to look his enemy in the eyes at his end. Peter pulled out the knife, and the guard fell to the ground, dying in convulsions.

  Like a young predator, he felt the euphoria of his first bloodshed.

  “Peter, over here!” Shouts from his left made him turn quickly, ready for the next danger.

  It was Sir James and the others. They were sitting in the dust behind a fence and were tied in pairs to a plank. But Lady Isabella was missing.

  He felt a strange heaviness in his chest. Peter knew that now wasn’t the time or place to think about that. He had to save his companions.

  He jumped over the fence and used his blade to cut the ropes from Herring’s arms, who was paired with Owen. Hamo was with David, and Githa was tied to some unknown lad. The rest were next to them.

  Peter gave the Welshman his knife to continue to release the others and then fell on his knees.

  He threw up some water; it was everything he had in his stomach. In a moment, he forgot where he was; the face of his last victim hung before him.

  He closed his eyes but could not escape the image of the Saracen. Peter took a deep breath and looked at his palms. Despite the torches, it was hard to see the sticky liquid on his hands. But he knew it was there; he felt the dark blood that marked his deed. He had seen blood before, but this time it was different. He didn’t know what to think. The last Saracen was like him—an ordinary, young man near his twenties. Had he had a family? Peter knew not everyone was without parents. But he had heard from Sir James about the origins of the Mamluk. The word meant “slave,” and was used to describe a slave raised and trained to be a soldier. They were homeless orphans, like him. They only had their regiment, their war brothers, their faith, and their lineage lord. It was a fierce force, a professional army of trained soldiers committed and loyal to their master, with nothing to lose except their honor and reputation.

  Peter felt a strong hand on his shoulder, turned, and saw a familiar face. The face said something to him, but the orphan didn’t hear a thing. He looked through him, and he blinked.

  The wind lashed Peter’s face and returned him into the middle of the arriving sandstorm.

  “Peter! You must breathe. Look at me.” Red Herring said to him.

  Slap! He hit Peter so hard with the back of his hand that his head went back. It was harsh but it did the trick. The orphan shook his head, cleared his vision, and rose from the ground with Herring’s help.

  Lightning pierced the sky.

  Peter blinked and opened his eyes again. He turned his head around and, realizing where he was, focused on the man near him.

  “I killed him ....”

  “You had to. Now we must go”

  “But ... he was like me ….”

  “Come on lad, you did what you were supposed to do. We will talk later.” He signaled to his men to gather around him. “Everyone, find your gear, get on a horse, and let’s get out of here.”

  Hamo and the others acted quickly. They collected their equipment near the tent close to their improvised prison and geared up. Peter told them where the meeting point was.

  “What about the Wolf?” Red Herring asked.

  The orphan’s heart was divided. He wasn’t sure whether Ulf had planned this massacre as a distraction to help the others, or if Peter had simply discovered him after he had abandoned their cause.

  “He will be late,” Peter said, nodding to the east of the camp, where a sound of a clash of swords echoed through the wind.

  “We need to find Lady Isabella,” Githa said. Hamo nodded.

  “And my father, too,” a trembling voice from behind them broke through the sound of the wind.

  Githa took the Italian’s hand and introduced them quickly. “Marco Polo.”

  The orphan paid no attention to the young man. Peter’s breathing was rapid; he knew that they had to act quickly to succeed. He told the others of the other location Ulf had told him about. James voted against going there; their mission wasn’t the lady’s safety. But Hamo refused to obey. He wanted to find the princess.

  “We must run fast, they will search for us. And the storm will hit us any moment; we need to find shelter,” Red Herring said, but everyone knew the temper of this lord from the Welsh Marches. “You and Githa have a few moments before the storm. We will distract the enemy if need be. Now go.”

  “I am coming with you,” Peter volunteered. “I know where they might be. Follow me.”

  He drew his sword, then turned to Red Herring and said, “Release the horses; they are scared to death of storms.”

  He led Githa and Hamo back to the center of the camp again.

  Why was he doing this? It wasn’t because he had a good soul. He wanted to see the lady once more. What about Hamo? He, too, was obsessed with her. If this was a competition for the princess, what chances did a street rat from Acre have against a lord from beyond the sea? Still, something in his heart drove him forward, hoping to earn a smile from Isabella. Perhaps even something more.

  He led them through the camp, his tunic soaked in sweat. They reached a large tent with two guards near the entrance.

  Everywhere was turmoil—screams and shouts combined with the wind, sand, and lightning announcing the oncoming storm. Confused soldiers were trying to hold their tents and their supplies to keep them from blowing away. Yet, here, the guards stood strong at their post, regardless of the weather.

  Hamo reached the two sentries first. He threw his scabbard at the right guard’s face and swung his sword toward the left one. The Mamluk raised his arm to shout a warning but he quickly changed his tactics. The guard pointed his spear toward Hamo, but the Crusader pushed it aside with his shield and his blade landed on the Mamluk’s face. Peter kicked the second Saracen’s leg; he lost his balance and Githa stabbed him between the ribs from behind. The orphan and Hamo lunged into the tent without caution; something like an unspoken rivalry had arisen between them in their competition to reach the lady first.

  They saw Lady Isabella lying on the ground, her dress had been ripped and torn down the front, revealing her pale skin. The brown-haired captain who had taken her here was bending down, grabbing her arm and was with his back to Hamo and Peter. The princess tried to push him away, but he was stronger.

  Peter felt a heat in his stomach; disgust and rage boiled within him. He approached quickly and pulled the captain away from the lady. The Mamluk tried to stand and to reach for a weapon but the lord from Welsh Marches used the pommel of his sword to hit his shoulder. The captain roared in pain but the knight hit him again and he stumbled and fell. Hamo kicked the Mamluk in the ribs as Peter helped the lady to get up and gave her a cloak he found on the ground to hide her nakedness. The lord from the Welsh Marches was about to deliver the final blow when he was interrupted.

  “Look out!” Githa shouted.

  Four Mamluks with angry faces stormed the tent with naked swords in hand. The attackers saw their captain on the ground and charged the Crusaders. The first one, а cross-eyed Mamluk swung his weapon toward Peter’s neck, but the orphan was faster. He raised his hand and grabbed the Mamluk’s wrist that held the blade and twisted it, butting him in the face with his forehead. There was a sound of breaking and the man screamed in pain. The soldier looked surprised, his nose streaming blood. Peter instinctively stuck the
sword above his armor, under his chin. He stepped back and with ease, he pulled his bloody sword out from the dead Mamluk and blocked the second soldier’s attack.

  Peter heard another Mamluk’s scream and glanced over from his fighting to see the man’s look for surprise and bleeding face as Hamo hammered his weapon over the soldier’s neck. The orphan stood between the lady and the tall soldier he faced while Githa crossed swords with the fourth Mamluk. Peter bent to avoid a sword flying to his head, knelt and stabbed the Mamluk in the thigh. He felt the sticky blood run over his hand. He retrieved his sword and kicked the wounded man’s other leg. The soldier’s face showed a grimace of pain and he fell on his back.

  “Finish him,” Hamo shouted, while he pushed the dead soldier back with his shield.

  Peter hesitated for a moment. He knew he had to, but when he looked at the enemy’s eyes, he saw fear. He raised his blade and froze for a moment. But Hamo jumped over the fallen man and finished him with his bloody sword. He snarled toward Peter, wiping the blood from his face.

  Githa pulled her sword from the chest of the last guard. As she rose, another four Mamluks charged the big tent. Hamo, Peter, and Githa lined toward them with bloody swords, as Lady Isabella cowered against the back of the tent.

  Peter heard the whistle of crossbow arrows flying past his head coming from behind him. Flying death, the orphan called this sound. He went wide-eyed, ducking behind the dead tall Mamluk, as crying out:

  “Watch out!”

  He glanced and saw the Italians at the entrance of the tent, reloading their crossbows. Their arrows pierced all the Mamluks with one volley. Only one of them was still moving on the ground, producing pre-death sounds, but Githa silenced him with her sword.

  The Genovese captain approached with his men.

  “Peter,” Andrea Pelu nodded to the orphan.

  “Thank you for your help, Mr. Pelu.”

  “We have to find our paymaster, the head of the Polo family,” the Genoese captain said. The storm was provoking a real terror in the camp, but the westerners looked uninterested.

  Peter introduced the Genoese to Hamo.

  “I want to interrogate this one,” Pelu said and pointed the wounded Mamluk captain.

  Hamo knelt down, wiped the blood from his sword on the cloak of one of the dead bodies, then got up and crossed his arms.

  “Do it quickly. We have to get out of here.”

  “Where are the others?” The Genoese asked the Mamluk captain. “Where is Mr. Polo?” Pelu asked again as Isabella was acting as an interpreter.

  The Mamluk captain said nothing, but Hamo wasn’t as polite as the Italian. He approached him swiftly and hit the Saracen with the pommel of his sword on the shoulder. Peter heard the crack of a bone and the Mamluk dropped on the ground like a broken man. Hamo’s handsome face looked now fierce. The Saracen emitted a scream and pain was painted on his face. After a few moments, he started to talk.

  Isabella interpreted his words. “He says they are waiting for the amir to arrive to question the travelers,” the lady said in a calm tone. She had regained her composure. “The Polo family are outside this tent on the west side. The Mamluk had ordered his men to tie them outside so that he could be alone with me.”

  Pelu went to check.

  “Why does the amir want to interrogate Lady Isabella and the Italians?” Hamo asked.

  The question was translated. The captain convulsed from the pain in his shoulder. The orphan guessed that there must be something broken.

  “It was the sultan’s order to check every passing caravan and convoy, even the birds.”

  “Why?” The Mamluk hesitated and Hamo urged him to continue by pressing his finger into his wound. “What was he looking for?”

  “A traitor and an assassin.” The pain made it hard for him to speak, but the interpreter understood what he said. “He is searching for a traitor and the sultan is looking to uncover a plot against him. He thinks the Crusaders are involved, too.”

  “What a discovery; Crusaders to want to kill the sultan,” Hamo said with irony.

  “Sultan Baibars also thinks the assassination of Edward was an inside job.”

  The Italian returned from outside and said, “We are ready to go, we found Mr. Polo.”

  “That’s all the information we’re going to get out of this man. Let's go,” Hamo said. But something was bothering Peter. Why would someone make so much effort to block the valley and question everyone who passed?

  “Diyaab al-Sahra?” he shouted. The captain’s face turned to purple, his eyes opened wide, and he became quiet.

  “Diyaab al-Sahra?” Peter repeated the question and the Mamluk responded.

  “Diyaab al-Sahra was close to the Sultan, once. But someone attacked his family by mistake. He doesn’t know more,” Isabella finished her translation and added, “I think he lied just now.”

  Peter knelt down to him, looked the Saracen in the eyes, and said, “He is here, in the camp.”

  The orphan left Isabella to translate his words. He saw the Mamluk’s face turn white. Sweat was dropping from the wounded man’s temple.

  “So, tell me something I don’t know, or I will leave you tied up here without a weapon.”

  Peter was surprised by the coldness of his own voice. “What happened to you, Peter?” he asked himself.

  “They were close, the sultan and the Desert Wolf. He was the tool of the sultan’s vengeance, years ago, when certain amirs and a faction of the assassins revolted against Baibars. The sultan sent the Wolf … and the rebellion was no more. Two years ago, Diyaab al-Sahra met a woman and he wanted to retire. The sultan agreed, on the condition that the Wolf complete his last assignment. It was nearly impossible—almost а suicide mission—but he succeeded and Baibars kept his word. But now the Sultan feared him: the Wolf was to live in peace; nobody was to touch him and he was not to interfere in the ruler’s affairs.”

  He stopped and glanced to Hamo who stood with his sword pointed to his throat.

  “But?” Peter asked.

  “But someone dared to attack him. They killed his loved one but failed to kill him.”

  “Who?”

  “I wish I knew.” The Mamluk coughed with some pain. “And now the Wolf is unleashed, and he never fails. The sultan knew this; it is because of Diyaab al-Sahra that the sultan sits on his throne.” The Mamluk captain coughed blood onto his tunic, then continued.

  “He isn’t from this world. People say he was delivered by sea waves. The Wolf doesn’t know what fear or pain is. He excels at two things: survival and killing. He strikes with dedication, determination, and skill.”

  He paused, coughed more blood, and said, “He is surrounded by death, and now we are going to die.”

  Lady Isabella stopped translating and made the sign of the cross.

  “Is there a connection between the two events? The attack on Edward and that over the Wolf’s manor,” Peter asked.

  The Mamluk’s eyes became wide and rounded and stared at the young man as his head jerked back. But the Saracen said no more as he fainted and they left him on the ground.

  “We are running out of time and we have to go,” Hamo said. They stole between the tents to their escape, using the night as cover.

  Peter turned his head back toward the center of the camp, where he heard the sound of fire, swords, and screams. He felt the thirst that made him want to know what was going on with Ulf. Something was stuck in his throat.

  They said that curiosity killed the bird.

  “I am not a bird,” he told himself.

  “You are not. But the little creature can fly, what about you?” he answered himself.

  “I can hold a sword,” he thought and grinned.

  Lighting hit the sky again; thunder echoed in their ears.

  Golden flashes came from the north. Peter and the rest had almost reached the horses. But he felt he needed to turn back. After all, the Wolf was part of their fellowship.

  “I will stay to find Ul
f,” Peter declared. He slowed his pace and turned his gaze to the dark. “You go. If I don’t show up soon, don’t wait for me.”

  “Good luck, Peter.” Githa waved and they left him in the dark.

  The night was gloomy and yellow. Wind and sand added to the confusion, blurring everything in sight. Peter ran toward the battle sounds. He had lost his helmet and his black hair was visible. But nobody knew his face, nor would anyone be suspicious of another soldier running to the center of the action. He ran, he was oblivious to fatigue and the pain between his legs. As he approached, he looked around the fighting men. He saw a bareheaded man who looked to be their amir and his royal guards dressed in yellow lamellar armors with golden decoration.

  Everything was dark, blurred somehow from the wind and the sand, but the figures had their own contours. The outlined shadow of the Wolf was unmistakable.

  Peter stopped about fifty paces away from the fighting men. The scene was somehow unrealistic: a fight in the middle of the storm. Why had Ulf embarked on this? To kill a few Mamluks? Peter would ask him if they managed to escape but he wondered if that was what Ulf wanted.

  The Desert Wolf stood in the dark, and his axe and blade looked darkened by the blood. Bodies surrounded him like a heap of stones. He swung his blades, blocking the sword of the last attacker and splitting the Saracen’s head with his axe. The dead man fell near the others. Ulf was walking in their camp. His confidence and lack of fear froze his enemies’ blood. One by one, he had killed any soldier who dared to confront him. For Peter, it seemed that Ulf was only here to satisfy his hunger for blood and revenge.

  Most of the Mamluks were now hesitated to advance against him. They breathed rapidly and tracked him more quickly with their widened eyes. They constantly looked at him and their dead comrades. He was surrounded by the countless bodies of brave soldiers who had dared, tried, and died.

  The wind and the flying objects around him increased; the storm was here and everyone had found shelter but these men in the center of the camp.

  Two guards on horses in their fine golden armor dared to advance, ordered by the voice of their amir. But the Wolf was faster; he knelt, took a fallen spear from a victim and threw it into the first rider’s chest. The spearhead struck between the horse’s head and the round shield of the rider; it was enough to unsaddle him, throwing him down in the dark. He fell backward with the spear impaling him, breaking the lamellar structure of his armor. A scream echoed.