The second soldier saw the first rider and his fate and slowed his charge. After a moment, he focused and headed toward the Wolf. Peter saw Ulf grab a shield and lunge toward the approaching animal. He slammed the warhorse’s left side using, the attacker’s speed to unbalance him.
The horse lurched to one side and fell. The Desert Wolf jumped on his fallen target and, with his axe, promptly smashed his skull. He didn’t appear to need help or worry about being caught. Ulf’s teeth flashed in the darkness—he was actually smiling.
Did he enjoy killing? The obvious answer set the orphan’s teeth on edge.
Peter was glad he had listened to his inner voice and come back.
The wind became stronger and blew away shrubs and small objects from the Saracen’s belongings like wooden bowls, cups, and spoons. A small, metal item flashed, hitting Ulf on the temple, near his eye. He lost his balance and fell.
The bareheaded amir on his white destrier noticed this and spurred his charger toward the Wolf. Peter saw a chance the amir to put Ulf’s head on his wall. All who were there—soldiers, bodyguards, animals—held their breath in anticipation of what would happen.
Peter looked around. He found a spear in the mess of sandstorm, camp, men, and darkness. His target was in front of him. Everything he saw was blurred and the outlines of the figures were hard to see. No one noticed his arrival and what he intended to do. He took a few steps from his position and threw the weapon with all the strength he had.
The orphan had seen soldiers and Crusaders in the training yard near the monastery throwing spears but he had never held one himself. It was heavier than he expected it to be. He wasn’t sure of the proper stance or how to hold or to throw the thing. He did it instinctively.
The spear flew.
A strange sound cut the air while the heavy, wooden rod with the iron blade flew. The spearhead reached its target. It clashed against the amir’s shield with a crack. The heavy blow of the weapon hit the rider with such enormous power that he lost his horse beneath his legs and found himself on the ground. Initially, he was shocked, bruised.
Then the pain arrived and he screamed.
Everyone ran toward the amir.
By this point, the intensity of the wind became stronger and lightning danced around. In another time and place, this would have been a marvelous sight.
Peter ran to Ulf, jumping over the fallen bodies. He helped him recover and stand on his feet. The Wolf looked stunned but had managed to observe the rider and his collapse from the orphans’ spear.
“A fine throw.”
Peter didn’t say anything. He realized the two of them were separated from their friends in the enemy camp in the eye of the storm. They had to seek shelter and they had to escape the soldiers, who, once they had aided their amir, would be after them.
“We have to go,” Peter said.
The two of them moved through the tents as some were blown away by the wind and wooden carts were turned away, provisions scattered. Soldiers were covering animals’ eyes and tying them up to calm them through the storm.
Peter turned left and stopped for a moment behind a fallen tent to think what to do.
“Over there,” Ulf managed to say. The orphan turned his gaze and realized their good fortune; there were two horses not far from there. The animals were where his friends had been.
“Herring.” Peter was relieved to assume that the Scottish knight had left the horses for them; this old bastard knew his trade. Ulf mounted the saddle of one animal. With fresh eagerness, the orphan jumped on another fine-looking, brown warhorse, and they vanished into the dark.
It was the sandstorm’s turn to sing its song.
Chapter Twelve
Holy Land, Tuesday, 21st of June, in the year 1272 of the incarnation of Christ; Near the Qaqun fortress
Barak was sitting on his fine, Arab horse.
It was a special one, indeed; its muscles, its bones, its strength, and the way the Sun reflected on its black coat was magnificent. It was a knight’s possession, worthy of an amir. But he wasn’t one yet. Not yet, but soon. His gaze was directed to the east and he was near the edge of a small plateau, overlooking a cliff.
Some distant wind kissed his face and tousled his raven-black hair. The Sun was starting to climb the horizon of the blue sky. Earlier, Barak had received news about the events of the previous night. He had hesitated, unsure whether to rejoice or not. He had had some close friends in Berrat’s camp and they were all gone now, but he was definitely closer to his goal. It was good news despite the casualties of the sandstorm.
He smiled. Intelligence had arrived about an assassination attempt on Lord Edward. Early reports said that the English prince had slaughtered the failed killer. He had traced the group who had left Acre. And in this party, was his primary target, the Desert Wolf. But there was also another target, an assassin.
But then he received another dispatch from a mysterious ally of his master, Ughan.
The report that the assassin had been killed was deception; he was traveling with the Wolf.
Why was the assassin important? Who was this mysterious ally? He helped them. Why? Now he wanted the favor returned: he wanted the party captured. Barak wanted the Wolf, and Ughan’s ally wanted the assassin—alive. So be it.
From the moment the party had left the vicinity of Acre, Barak’s men had tracked them, observing the group. Every time they had decided to catch them, however, something had happened. At first, they hadn’t been sure about the intelligence. But the identity of the travelers had been confirmed.
Diyaab al-Sahra, the Desert Wolf.
Again, and again, this name appeared. Barak had never met him before but he remembered the expression on the sultan’s face two days ago. He had missed his chance to kill the Wolf at his manor. There was something mysterious about this man.
But what was it? He had looked like a ragged rat when Barak had met him nearly a week before. This unknown, Christian dog was important, but to whom? He would like to know. He didn’t like this; he was used to the simple life on the northern frontier. He liked it there. He wanted to look directly into the eyes of the enemy and to open his belly with his blade.
Then he could enjoy the nice, pale girl’s company and drink some expensive wine. Ughan’s winery had one of the finest collections of wine from any part of the world you could imagine.
His master, Ughan, troubled him, too. He had become sleepy, fat, and reckless. He spent too much time with his women and not enough with his duties.
Everywhere, people were talking about the Wolf. Barak couldn’t forget Baibars’ look when he had received the news about the failed attempt to kill him. That had been curious.
He needed to found out more about this man. He needed to find someone who knew him. He wondered where to start looking for such a person.
Hunger drove men forward, didn’t it? He nodded in his thoughts. The eternal hunger. His stomach sang the song of the immortal fight. The desire to satisfy his human nature, to fill his stomach and to wash his dry mouth with fine wine drove him forward. He was hungry, but not for food. He wanted more, much more. He would do whatever he must to satisfy his hunger and even more. He was a determined man.
He looked at the valley. The sandstorm had erased everything. The entire battalion was missing. He remembered the legend of the Persian army blown away by the desert sandstorm more than a thousand years before. He had learned of it at the military school where he was raised and trained to be a Mamluk soldier. There, he and his brothers had learned to obey and serve, to fight and die in the name of the ruling dynasty. They were the “owned soldiers,” the slave soldiers, the Mamluks of the sultan.
Yet, times had changed.
Now they were the ruling masters. There were some amirs and factions who didn’t like the regime. Nevertheless, they ruled the whole empire. They were forging the “Mamluk Dynasty.” He smiled and started to dream.
It was time to step forward and to write his name with gold into t
he history of this land. He felt he was ready. The events were close and the prophet had foreseen his glory.
A year before, he had met an old man who claimed to see the future. The man told of upcoming events, saying that Barak would play a major role. He had hesitated to believe it back then, but all of the things the prophet had said had come to pass. The traitor in their camp, the flood in the spring, even the poison—the prophet had predicted them all.
It had been Barak’s decision to keep this man close, to check his wisdom and words.
There wasn’t any chance that someone else would ruin his fate. Certainly, not some ragged Desert Wolf.
This name instilled panic in others.
Barak knew the legends had to be greatly exaggerated. He wanted to meet him again to measure their strengths and swords, face to face. He wasn’t afraid of this name. And he would not make the same mistake twice; when he met the Wolf this time, he would squeeze his heart—painfully, and with some pleasure. After all, his trade was war and killing, and he was one of the best around. He had led a fearsome and fearless regiment from the northern frontier of Damascus. He had fought with many enemies: Tartars, Bedouins, renegades, traitors, bandits, western knights, even the fanatic religious warriors of the cross. He had crushed them like flies. He had never failed.
His master, Amir Ughan, was a man who brought fear.
Barak disliked him, but he respected him. He made a deadly enemy—clever, ruthless, and ambitious. Once, he had been an excellent fighter who had held a sword shoulder-to-shoulder with Baibars. But the years had influenced and Ughan became fat.
Yes, he indulged himself and had lost his agility. But he looked more clever and deadlier than ever. Now, most men feared him because no one could guess what was in his mind. And he used this to his advantage, as he had used his blade as younger Mamluk.
Barak and his men were almost 200 strong Mamluk riders equipped with bows and swords. They had observed Berrat’s men from a distance over the past few days and had managed to hide in the caves of the mountains before the storm. Why had Berrat not foreseen what would happen? Why had he not retreated to Qaqun before the storm? Now his army was destroyed.
Berrat was weak and this was the moment to finish him.
Most of Barak’s men were from the northern border. They hadn’t had any trouble seeing their brethren die in the sandstorm. Barak had carefully selected them; they were loyal only to him. He was sure his master had planted a spy among his men, as Barak had among Ughan’s men. His master liked the games of spies.
Barak led his soldiers to investigate what had been left by the deadly storm. He remembered the Persian army once more. A thousand years before, the Persian king had made a mistake and the desert had ripped his army into oblivion. Without an army, the king could not stand against his enemies. And now, Sultan Baibars had lost a battalion to the desert storm.
Fate was repeating itself. The day would turn to night, then to a day again. Everything was turning around and his chance would come to him, at last. He took a look at his prophet, who always rode after him. He smiled to him, encouraged him. What difference could a little encouragement of a man’s beliefs make?
He would find out soon.
“Come, let’s go,” he said to his men.
***
“So, someone sent an assassin to kill the English prince, and someone tried to kill you.” Red Herring nodded to Ulf. “They both failed. Was it planned or just a coincidence?” James smiled bitterly. “Why would someone want to kill a prince? To take the crown? To prevent his politics or actions? To silence him? To remove him from your path? What else would be a reason? What is so important that it should cost the life of a future king? Perhaps it was revenge. But, again, for what?” Red Herring thought aloud.
They were riding on their path again—the whole fellowship, in addition to a Venetian merchant and his mercenary crossbowmen. The men discussed the events, and Peter sharpened his ears with the thought of hearing everything. They rode in pairs but were close enough to talk and to hear what was said.
“As the Italians say, don't have too many irons in the fire.” Ulf was riding alongside Red Herring. Hamo was behind them.
“What it means?” The lord from the Welsh Marches asked.
“You have to ask only the most important questions,” Ulf said.
“Who was afraid of the prince? Who was afraid of you?” James said.
“That is easy to answer. The sultan,” Hamo said.
“But beneath the obvious, why would he be afraid of an English Crusader without sufficient manpower and resources to fulfill his Crusade? Baibars signed a peace treaty and has started to prepare for the Tartar invasion,” James said. “And besides, he doesn’t want to provoke a new Crusade in his realm.”
“Yet, his reputation shows he is capable of such un-chivalric deeds as to send someone home, dead, in a coffin,” Hamo said.
“Is Prince Edmund, Edward’s brother capable of this?” Ulf asked.
“No. He is too young and lacks experience. Besides, Edward’s mother and father are still alive, and it is thanks to Edward that they have their kingdom back from Simon de Montfort,” Red Herring said.
“Is there a connection between the two events? The attack on Edward and that over the Wolf’s manor?” Hamo asked.
Owen joined the conversation. “To kill an ordinary man is one thing, but to kill a future king?”
“And the assassination looked prepared—organized—but as if, suddenly, someone decided to do it fast and made a mistake. With failure, you expose a whole network of men. Why the hurry?” Hamo asked no one particular.
“Look at him.” Red Herring also nodded to the orphan. “What was his part in this? Or was he simply in the wrong place at the wrong time and saw something he wasn’t supposed to see?”
“Eh… What irony. Yes, I heard his story so far, an orphan, a street urchin from the poor district, messing up a plan. Like a sandstorm,” Hamo said.
“Storm?” Red Herring thought for a moment, then laughed. “A storm undermined our efforts at the Qaqun fortress last time. Now, another one appeared in the same region. The sandstorm residence, this is how I will remember this place. It’s like divine intervention; every time we approach this place, a sandstorm rises up against us.”
“But this time it helped us, don’t you think?” Hamo smiled.
“It depended on your point of view. But yes, this time it was on our side.” Red Herring smiled, too.
“So, it was you who was responsible for the failed attack on Baibars’ fleet last year?” Ulf asked Red Herring curiously.
Sir James looked at the Desert Wolf but said no more.
Peter was curious. A failed attack? What had happened? He remembered news about a sunken Mamluk fleet near the port of Limassol that year, but what was the connection? Red Herring? He wanted to know. Peter wished he had listened in detail to the story the sailors in the taverns had told.
They rode and they talked. What else could they do? They discussed the sandstorm, the Mamluk camp, and their new companions. The Genovese crossbowmen and their paymaster, the merchant from Venice, Mr. Niccolò Polo. They had found the Italians with their papers of safe access to Jerusalem. This encouraged them in their mission and lifted their spirits once again.
No one had thought they would be free from the Mamluks so soon and without casualties. Even the middle-aged woman and the baby were fine. Peter was happy to see the Lady of Beirut again. She kissed on his forehead him for gratitude for what he had done the night before.
They had all been saved by a cave they had found during the storm. The cave had been dark and scary, but dry and a safe refuge from the storm. They had lost the cart and Isabella’s carriage in the sandstorm. Thanks to their luck, they were unharmed.
According to Edward the Saracen, they were safe because of the Wolf and his knowledge of the landscape as well. At the beginning of the journey, all of the members of the fellowship had looked at the assassin with distrust and e
yes filled with vengeance. Only Peter exchanged a word with him.
Before they had slept, Peter and Nickolas had once more used the last light from the fire to teach Peter his letters. Vegetius, the author of the book, had been an extraordinary man. The book was replete with instructions and guidelines to war and training. Had it been written for the Roman emperor or was it a way to preserve information for future soldiers? Reading it, Peter wondered how the world was different now than in the time of the Romans’ rule. They had a manual which outlined how to lead an army, how to select men who were suitable for battle, how to prevent and address mutiny, how to organize in battle, and much more. The orphan hadn’t imagined it would be so interesting to read. He was amazed at himself, how he wanted to prolong the night so he could have more time to read and to learn. He was astonished how the book contained such valuable knowledge.
This book, containing precious information from the ancient Romans, had been a gift to Lord Edward. Every time Peter remembered this fact, he despised himself. But he wanted to know more. He wanted to learn how to read and write quickly and this desire silenced his inner guilt. In the beginning, it was hard for him, although Nickolas helped him. The young valet guided him with patience and skill. Someday, the two of them joked, Nickolas would be a great teacher and Peter would be a great knight. Only fate would tell.
He had slept after the storm like an oak tree—his left side had tingled when he had risen. But he had awoken with an eagerness for new adventures.
Peter remembered a situation in the morning before they prepared to leave the cave.
Hamo’s face was different from the day before; he wasn’t smiling, as usual. He looked at the orphan with new eyes. Peter was the man who had guided them to save Lady Isabella. He was the man who had first managed to give her a hand to rise from the dust and to earn a smile from her. The ultimate reward for a knight: a smile and thankful gaze from a princess—indeed, a beautiful one. She had taken his hand and stood on her feet. The view was hypnotizing for all who were there.
Longsword- Edward and the Assassin Page 19